A Set of Six Read online

  AN ANARCHIST

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

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

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

  In various parts of the civilized and uncivilized world I have had toswallow B. O. S. with more or less benefit to myself, though withoutgreat pleasure. Prepared with hot water and abundantly peppered to bringout the taste, this extract is not really unpalatable. But I have neverswallowed its advertisements. Perhaps they have not gone far enough. Asfar as I can remember they make no promise of everlasting youth to theusers of B. O. S., nor yet have they claimed the power of raising thedead for their estimable products. Why this austere reserve, I wonder?But I don't think they would have had me even on these terms. Whateverform of mental degradation I may (being but human) be suffering from, itis not the popular form. I am not gullible.

  I have been at some pains to bring out distinctly this statement aboutmyself in view of the story which follows. I have checked the facts asfar as possible. I have turned up the files of French newspapers, and Ihave also talked with the officer who commands the military guard onthe Ile Royale, when in the course of my travels I reached Cayenne. Ibelieve the story to be in the main true. It is the sort of story thatno man, I think, would ever invent about himself, for it is neithergrandiose nor flattering, nor yet funny enough to gratify a pervertedvanity.

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

  But the most interesting characteristic of this island (which seems likea sort of penal settlement for condemned cattle) consists in its beingthe only known habitat of an extremely rare and gorgeous butterfly.The species is even more rare than it is beautiful, which is not sayinglittle. I have already alluded to my travels. I travelled at that time,but strictly for myself and with a moderation unknown in our days ofround-the-world tickets. I even travelled with a purpose. As a matter offact, 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 cattlestation, alluded to my pursuits. He seemed to consider me the greatestabsurdity in the world. On the other hand, the B. O. S. Co., Ltd.,represented to him the acme of the nineteenth century's achievement. Ibelieve that he slept in his leggings and spurs. His days he spent inthe saddle flying over the plains, followed by a train of half-wildhorsemen, who called him Don Enrique, and who had no definite idea ofthe B. O. S. Co., Ltd., which paid their wages. He was an excellentmanager, but I don't see why, when we met at meals, he should havethumped me on the back, with loud, derisive inquiries: "How's the deadlysport to-day? Butterflies going strong? Ha, ha, ha!"--especially as hecharged 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 forthat year those monies are no doubt included. "I don't think I canmake it anything less in justice to my company," he had remarked, withextreme gravity, when I was arranging with him the terms of my stay onthe island.

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

  The man's head and shoulders emerged above the deck, over which werescattered various tools of his trade and a few pieces of machinery. Hewas doing some repairs to the engines. At the sound of our footstepshe raised anxiously a grimy face with a pointed chin and a tiny fairmoustache. What could be seen of his delicate features under the blacksmudges appeared to me wasted and livid in the greenish shade of theenormous tree spreading its foliage over the launch moored close to thebank.

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

  "How does the work get on, Crocodile?"

  I should have said before that the amiable Harry had picked up Frenchof a sort somewhere--in some colony or other--and that he pronouncedit with a disagreeable forced precision as though he meant to guy thelanguage. The man in the launch answered him quickly in a pleasantvoice. His eyes had a liquid softness and his teeth flashed dazzlinglywhite between his thin, drooping lips. The manager turned to me, verycheerful 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 islandexcept crocodiles; so he must belong to the species--eh? But in realityhe's nothing less than un citoyen anarchiste de Barcelone."

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

  "I do not even know Spanish."

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

  At this the man straightened himself up, dropping a spanner he had beenusing, 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 anyfurther attention to us. After looking at him for a minute or so, wewent 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 theB. O. S. Co. "I gave him the name because it suited me to label him inthat 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 histhin, long legs. "That surprises you. I am bound to do my best for mycompany. They have enormous expenses. Wh
y--our agent in Horta tells methey spend fifty thousand pounds every year in advertising all over theworld! One can't be too economical in working the show. Well, just youlisten. When I took charge here the estate had no steam-launch. I askedfor one, and kept on asking by every mail till I got it; but the manthey sent out with it chucked his job at the end of two months, leavingthe launch moored at the pontoon in Horta. Got a better screw at asawmill up the river--blast him! And ever since it has been the samething. Any Scotch or Yankee vagabond that likes to call himself amechanic out here gets eighteen pounds a month, and the next you knowhe's cleared out, after smashing something as likely as not. I give youmy word that some of the objects I've had for engine-drivers couldn'ttell 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 hispeculiarities of manner, I wanted to know what all this had to do withthe man being an anarchist.

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

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

  "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 skippingabout in front of my horse pretty smartly. I asked him what he was doingthere. He had got his breath by then, and explained that he had meant tomake 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 laughedaloud and he got uneasy. Had he been deceived? Was there no farm withinwalking distance?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "This answer made me think that perhaps he was not an anarchist. Ibelieve those damned lunatics are rather proud of themselves. If he hadbeen 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 theclass they come mostly from, isn't it? I hate the cowardly bomb-throwingbrutes. I almost made up my mind to turn my horse short round and leavehim to starve or drown where he was, whichever he liked best. As tocrossing the island to bother me again, the cattle would see to that. Idon'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 saidat once, 'Mecanicien, monsieur,' I nearly jumped out of the saddle withexcitement. The launch had been lying disabled and idle in the creek forthree 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 ifbewitched.

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

  These are the words in which the worthy manager of the Maranon estaterelated to me the coming of the supposed anarchist. He meant to keephim--out of a sense of duty to the company--and the name he had givenhim would prevent the fellow from obtaining employment anywhere inHorta. The vaqueros of the estate, when they went on leave, spread itall over the town. They did not know what an anarchist was, nor yet whatBarcelona meant. They called him Anarchisto de Barcelona, as if it werehis Christian name and surname. But the people in town had been readingin their papers about the anarchists in Europe and were very muchimpressed. Over the jocular addition of "de Barcelona" Mr. HarryGee chuckled with immense satisfaction. "That breed is particularlymurderous, isn't it? It makes the sawmills crowd still more afraid ofhaving anything to do with him--see?" he exulted, candidly. "I hold himby that name better than if I had him chained up by the leg to the deckof the steam-launch.

  "And mark," he added, after a pause, "he does not deny it. I am notwronging 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 frommy kitchen and his clothing from the store. Of course I'll give himsomething at the end of the year, but you don't think I'd employ aconvict and give him the same money I would give an honest man? I amlooking after the interests of my company first and last."

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

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

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

  The principal truth discoverable in the views of Paul the engineer wasthat 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 ofBarcelona at all. At the Maranon he lived apart from the station, ina small shed with a metal roof and straw walls, which he calledmon atelier. He had a work-bench there. They had given him severalhorse-blankets and a saddle--not that he ever had occasion to ride, butbecause no other bedding was used by the working-hands, who were allvaqueros--cattlemen. And on this horseman's gear, like a son of theplains, he used to sleep amongst the tools of his
trade, in a litterof rusty scrap-iron, with a portable forge at his head, under thework-bench sustaining his grimy mosquito-net.

  Now and then I would bring him a few candle ends saved from the scantsupply of the manager's house. He was very thankful for these. He didnot like to lie awake in the dark, he confessed. He complained thatsleep fled from him. "Le sommeil me fuit," he declared, with hishabitual air of subdued stoicism, which made him sympathetic andtouching. I made it clear to him that I did not attach undue importanceto 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 theend, he hastened to light another.

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

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

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

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

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

  The entertainment came off in a little cafe on the Boulevard de laChapelle. At dinner they drank some special wine. It was excellent.Everything was excellent; and the world--in his own words--seemed a verygood 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 allthe drinks after dinner, which was only proper on his part.

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

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

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

  But an extraordinary thing happened. At something the strangers said hiselation fell. Gloomy ideas--des idees noires--rushed into his head. Allthe world outside the cafe; appeared to him as a dismal evil place wherea multitude of poor wretches had to work and slave to the sole endthat a few individuals should ride in carriages and live riotously inpalaces. He became ashamed of his happiness. The pity of mankind's cruellot wrung his heart. In a voice choked with sorrow he tried to expressthese 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. Therewas only one way of dealing with the rotten state of society. Demolishthe whole sacree boutique. Blow up the whole iniquitous show.

  Their heads hovered over the table. They whispered to him eloquently; Idon't think they quite expected the result. He was extremely drunk--maddrunk. With a howl of rage he leaped suddenly upon the table. Kickingover the bottles and glasses, he yelled: "Vive l'anarchie! Death to thecapitalists!" He yelled this again and again. All round him broken glasswas falling, chairs were being swung in the air, people were taking eachother by the throat. The police dashed in. He hit, bit, scratched andstruggled, 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 verybig in the dim light.

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

  I doubt it. But whatever chance he had was done away with by a youngsocialist lawyer who volunteered to undertake his defence. In vain heassured him that he was no anarchist; that he was a quiet, respectablemechanic, only too anxious to work ten hours per day at his trade. Hewas represented at the trial as the victim of society and his drunkenshoutings as the expression of infinite suffering. The young lawyer hadhis way to make, and this case was just what he wanted for a start. Thespeech 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, ofcourse, for my old workshop. My patron had a particular liking for mebefore; but when he saw me he turned green with fright and showed me thedoor with a shaking hand."

  While he stood in the street, uneasy and disconcerted, he was accostedby 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 area good comrade and your ideas are sound. But the devil of it is that youwon't be able to get work anywhere now. These bourgeois'll conspire tostarve 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. Hisseemed to be the sort of nature needing support and sympathy. The ideaof not being able to find work had knocked him over completely. If hispatron, 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 towarn every employer inclined to give him a chance. He felt suddenly veryhelpless, alarmed and idle; and he followed the middle-aged man to theestaminet round the corner where he met some other good companions. Theyassured 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 labourand to the destruction of society.

  He sat biting his lower lip.

  "That is, monsieur, how I became a compagnon," he said. The hand hepassed over his forehead was trembling. "All the same, there's somethingwrong 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 hisdejection. 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, Icould not even go to draw a few francs from my savings-bank without acomrade hanging about the door to see that I didn't bolt! And most ofthem were neither more nor less than housebreakers. The intelligent, Imean. They robbed the rich; they were only getting back their own, theysaid. When I had had some drink I believed them. There were also thefools 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 besttime. I found refuge from misery in rage. But one can't be alwaysdrunk--n'est-ce pas, monsieur? And when I was sober I was afraid tobreak 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 roba bank. Afterwards a bomb would be thrown to wreck the place. Mybeginner's part would be to keep watch in a street at the back and totake care of a black bag with the bomb inside till it was wanted. Afterthe meeting at which the affair was arranged a trusty comrade did notleave me an inch. I had not dared to protest; I was afraid of beingdone away with quietly in that room; only, as we were walking together Iwondered whether it would not be better for me to throw myself suddenlyinto the Seine. But while I was turning it over in my mind we hadcrossed the bridge, and afterwards I had not the opportunity."

  In the light of the candle end, with his sharp features, fluffy littlemoustache, and oval face, he looked at times delicately and gaily young,and then appeared quite old, decrepit, full of
sorrow, pressing hisfolded 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 waskeeping watch in the back street, bag in hand, he was set upon by thepolice. "These imbeciles," had knocked him down without noticing what hehad 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 wasamused. 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 thestreet, and a fellow of the name of Mafile, one of the sympatheticstrangers who had applauded his sentiments and consoled his humanitariansorrows when he got drunk in the cafe.

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

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

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

  Under these circumstances the convicts planned a mutiny. Such a thinghad never been known in the penitentiary's history before. But theirplan was not without some possibility of success. The warders were to betaken by surprise and murdered during the night. Their arms wouldenable the convicts to shoot down the people in the galley as she camealongside in the morning. The galley once in their possession, otherboats were to be captured, and the whole company was to row away up thecoast.

  At dusk the two warders on duty mustered the convicts as usual. Thenthey proceeded to inspect the huts to ascertain that everything wasin order. In the second they entered they were set upon and absolutelysmothered under the numbers of their assailants. The twilight fadedrapidly. It was a new moon; and a heavy black squall gathering overthe coast increased the profound darkness of the night. The convictsassembled in the open space, deliberating upon the next step to betaken, 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 Ikill these warders? I had nothing against them. But I was afraid of theothers. Whatever happened, I could not escape from them. I sat aloneon the stump of a tree with my head in my hands, sick at heart at thethought of a freedom that could be nothing but a mockery to me. SuddenlyI was startled to perceive the shape of a man on the path near by. Hestood perfectly still, then his form became effaced in the night. Itmust have been the chief warder coming to see what had become of histwo men. No one noticed him. The convicts kept on quarrelling overtheir plans. The leaders could not get themselves obeyed. The fiercewhispering of that dark mass of men was very horrible.

  "At last they divided into two parties and moved off. When they hadpassed me I rose, weary and hopeless. The path to the warders' house wasdark and silent, but on each side the bushes rustled slightly. PresentlyI saw a faint thread of light before me. The chief warder, followed byhis three men, was approaching cautiously. But he had failed to closehis 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 thepursuers 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 assureyou, monsieur, I was indifferent to everything. After standing stillfor a while, I walked on along the path till I kicked something hard. Istooped and picked up a warder's revolver. I felt with my fingersthat it was loaded in five chambers. In the gusts of wind I heard theconvicts calling to each other far away, and then a roll of thunderwould cover the soughing and rustling of the trees. Suddenly, a biglight ran across my path very low along the ground. And it showed awoman's skirt with the edge of an apron.

  "I knew that the person who carried it must be the wife of the headwarder. They had forgotten all about her, it seems. A shot rang out inthe interior of the island, and she cried out to herself as she ran. Shepassed on. I followed, and presently I saw her again. She was pullingat 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 toand fro. This is the agreed signal for the Ile Royale should assistancebe required at night. The wind carried the sound away from our islandand the light she swung was hidden on the shore side by the few treesthat 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 blueblouse and waited. A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder destroyedboth the sound and the light of the signal for an instant, but she neverfaltered, pulling at the cord and swinging the lantern as regularly as amachine. 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 thatif a body of my fellow-convicts came down to the pier--which was sure tohappen soon--I would shoot her through the head before I shot myself. Iknew the 'comrades' well. This idea of mine gave me quite an interestin life, monsieur; and at once, instead of remaining stupidly exposed onthe pier, I retreated a little way and crouched behind a bush. I did notintend to let myself be pounced upon unawares and be prevented perhapsfrom rendering a supreme service to at least one human creature before Idied myself.

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

  "She didn't need me any more. I did not budge. Some soldiers were onlyin their shirt-sleeves, others without boots, just as the call to armshad found them. They passed by my bush at the double. The galley hadbeen sent away for more; and the woman sat all alone crying at the endof 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 redpantaloons of two more men. I was overcome with astonishment. They,too, started off at a run. Their tunics flapped unbuttoned and they werebare-headed. One of them panted out to the other, 'Straight on, straighton!'

  "Where on earth did they spring from, I wondered. Slowly I walked downthe short pier. I saw the woman's form shaken by sobs and heard hermoaning more and more distinctly, 'Oh, my man! my poor man! my poorman!' I stole on quietly. She could neither hear nor see anything. Shehad thrown her apron over her head and was rocking herself to and fro inher 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 thatthey should have thus broken the regulations from a sense of duty. Andit was a stupid thing to do. I could not believe my eyes in the verymoment I was stepping into that boat.

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

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

  "And directly an amazed voice exclaimed. 'It's a miracle!' It was thevoice 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. Hespoke 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 wastheirs, not mine. 'There are two of us,' said Mafile, 'against youalone.'

  "I got out into the open to keep clear of them for fear of getting atreacherous blow on the head. I could have shot them both where theystood. 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 consultedin low tones about my fate, while with my hand on the revolver in thebosom of my blouse I had their lives in my power. I let them live. Imeant them to pull that boat. I represented to them with abject humilitythat I understood the management of a boat, and that, being three topull, we could get a rest in turns. That decided them at last. It wastime. A little more and I would have gone into screaming fits at thedrollness of it."

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

  "I deny nothing," he burst out. "I was elated, monsieur. I tasted asort of felicity. But I kept very quiet. I took my turns at pullingall through the night. We made for the open sea, putting our trust ina passing ship. It was a foolhardy action. I persuaded them to it. Whenthe sun rose the immensity of water was calm, and the Iles de Salutappeared only like dark specks from the top of each swell. I wassteering 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 cantell you. I held my sides and rolled in my seat, they had such startledfaces. 'What's got into him, the animal?' cries Mafile.

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

  "Then I produced the revolver. Aha! In a moment they both got thestoniest eyes you can imagine. Ha, ha! They were frightened. Butthey pulled. Oh, yes, they pulled all day, sometimes looking wild andsometimes looking faint. I lost nothing of it because I had to keep myeyes on them all the time, or else--crack!--they would have been on topof me in a second. I rested my revolver hand on my knee all ready andsteered with the other. Their faces began to blister. Sky and seaseemed on fire round us and the sea steamed in the sun. The boat made asizzling sound as she went through the water. Sometimes Mafile foamedat 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 topieces. 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 ofthe boat. I permitted them to snatch some of it in the hollow of theirpalms. But as I gave the command, 'En route!' I caught them exchangingsignificant 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. Itis they who went to sleep as they pulled, tumbling off the thwarts headover heels suddenly, one after another. I let them lie. All the starswere out. It was a quiet world. The sun rose. Another day. Allez! Enroute!

  "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 athim, 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 mademe smile. Ah! They loved their life these two, in this evil world oftheirs, just as I used to love my life, too, before they spoiled it forme with their phrases. I let them go on to the point of exhaustion, andonly then I pointed at the sails of a ship on the horizon.

  "Aha! You should have seen them revive and buckle to their work! ForI kept them at it to pull right across that ship's path. They werechanged. The sort of pity I had felt for them left me. They lookedmore like themselves every minute. They looked at me with the glances Iremembered 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 thetrack 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 thesetwo, had made it accursed. I looked at them. I remembered their lies,their promises, their menaces, and all my days of misery. Why could theynot have left me alone after I came out of prison? I looked at them andthought that while they lived I could never be free. Never. Neither Inor others like me with warm hearts and weak heads. For I know I havenot a strong head, monsieur. A black rage came upon me--the rage ofextreme 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 whosend us to Cayenne! They shall soon know that we are free.'

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

  "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 Ihated. He hauled in his oar with a loud sigh, and as he was raising hishand 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 didnot give him a second glance. The other cried out piercingly. Only oneshriek of horror. Then all was still.

  "He slipped off the thwart on to his knees and raised his clasped handsbefore 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 ina 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 satdown quietly. I was free at last! At last. I did not even look towardsthe 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 almoston top of me. They hauled me on board and secured the boat astern. Theywere all blacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto. He alone knew afew words of French. I could not find out where they were going nor whothey were. They gave me something to eat every day; but I did not likethe way they used to discuss me in their language. Perhaps they weredeliberating about throwing me overboard in order to keep possession ofthe boat. How do I know? As we were passing this island I asked whetherit was inhabite
d. I understood from the mulatto that there was a houseon it. A farm, I fancied, they meant. So I asked them to put me ashoreon the beach and keep the boat for their trouble. This, I imagine, wasjust 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 armswent like a windmill and his ejaculations became very much like raving.The burden of them was that he "denied nothing, nothing!" I could onlylet him go on, and sat out of his way, repeating, "Calmez vous, calmezvous," at intervals, till his agitation exhausted itself.

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

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

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

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

  It was on the pontoon in Horta that we met; and I tried to induce him toleave the launch moored where she was and follow me to Europe there andthen. It would have been delightful to think of the excellent manager'ssurprise and disgust at the poor fellow's escape. But he refused withunconquerable 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 thelow shed full of tools and scraps of iron--the anarchist slave of theMaranon estate, waiting with resignation for that sleep which "fled"from him, as he used to say, in such an unaccountable manner.