Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
by Joseph Conrad
Part Third: The Lighthouse
THE next day was quiet
in the morning, except for the faint sound of firing to the northward, in
the direction of Los Hatos. Captain Mitchell had listened to it from his
balcony anxiously. The phrase, "In my delicate position as the only
consular agent then in the port, everything, sir, everything was a just
cause for anxiety," had its place in the more or less stereotyped
relation of the "historical events" which for the next few years
was at the service of distinguished strangers visiting Sulaco. The mention
of the dignity and neutrality of the flag, so difficult to preserve in his
position, "right in the thick of these events between the lawlessness
of that piratical villain Sotillo and the more regularly established but
scarcely less atrocious tyranny of his Excellency Don Pedro Montero,"
came next in order. Captain Mitchell was not the man to enlarge upon mere
dangers much. But he insisted that it was a memorable day. On that day,
towards dusk, he had seen "that poor fellow of mine--Nostromo. The
sailor whom I discovered, and, I may say, made, sir. The man of the famous
ride to Cayta, sir. An historical event, sir!"
Regarded by the O. S. N. Company as an old and faithful servant, Captain
Mitchell was allowed to attain the term of his usefulness in ease and
dignity at the head of the enormously extended service. The augmentation of
the establishment, with its crowds of clerks, an office in town, the old
office in the harbour, the division into departments--passenger, cargo,
lighterage, and so on--secured a greater leisure for his last years in the
regenerated Sulaco, the capital of the Occidental Republic. Liked by the
natives for his good nature and the formality of his manner, self-important
and simple, known for years as a "friend of our country," he felt
himself a personality of mark in the town. Getting up early for a turn in
the market-place while the gigantic shadow of Higuerota was still lying upon
the fruit and flower stalls piled up with masses of gorgeous colouring,
attending easily to current affairs, welcomed in houses, greeted by ladies
on the Alameda, with his entry into all the clubs and a footing in the Casa
Gould, he led his privileged old bachelor, man-about-town existence with
great comfort and solemnity. But on mail-boat days he was down at the
Harbour Office at an early hour, with his own gig, manned by a smart crew in
white and blue, ready to dash off and board the ship directly she showed her
bows between the harbour heads.
It would be into the Harbour Office that he would lead some privileged
passenger he had brought off in his own boat, and invite him to take a seat
for a moment while he signed a few papers. And Captain Mitchell, seating
himself at his desk, would keep on talking hospitably--
"There isn't much time if you are to see everything in a day. We shall
be off in a moment. We'll have lunch at the Amarilla Club--though I belong
also to the Anglo-American--mining engineers and business men, don't you
know--and to the Mirliflores as well, a new club--English, French, Italians,
all sorts--lively young fellows mostly, who wanted to pay a compliment to an
old resident, sir. But we'll lunch at the Amarilla. Interest you, I fancy.
Real thing of the country. Men of the first families. The President of the
Occidental Republic himself belongs to it, sir. Fine old bishop with a
broken nose in the patio. Remarkable piece of statuary, I believe. Cavaliere
Parrochetti--you know Parrochetti, the famous Italian sculptor--was working
here for two years--thought very highly of our old bishop. . . . There! I am
very much at your service now."
Proud of his experience, penetrated by the sense of historical importance of
men, events, and buildings, he talked pompously in jerky periods, with
slight sweeps of his short, thick arm, letting nothing "escape the
attention" of his privileged captive.
"Lot of building going on, as you observe. Before the Separation it was
a plain of burnt grass smothered in clouds of dust, with an ox-cart track to
our Jetty. Nothing more. This is the Harbour Gate. Picturesque, is it not?
Formerly the town stopped short there. We enter now the Calle de la
Constitucion. Observe the old Spanish houses. Great dignity. Eh? I suppose
it's just as it was in the time of the Viceroys, except for the pavement.
Wood blocks now. Sulaco National Bank there, with the sentry boxes each side
of the gate. Casa Avellanos this side, with all the ground-floor windows
shuttered. A wonderful woman lives there--Miss Avellanos--the beautiful
Antonia. A character, sir! A historical woman! Opposite--Casa Gould. Noble
gateway. Yes, the Goulds of the original Gould Concession, that all the
world knows of now. I hold seventeen of the thousand-dollar shares in the
Consolidated San Tome mines. All the poor savings of my lifetime, sir, and
it will be enough to keep me in comfort to the end of my days at home when I
retire. I got in on the ground-floor, you see. Don Carlos, great friend of
mine. Seventeen shares--quite a little fortune to leave behind one, too. I
have a niece--married a parson--most worthy man, incumbent of a small parish
in Sussex; no end of children. I was never married myself. A sailor should
exercise self-denial. Standing under that very gateway, sir, with some young
engineer-fellows, ready to defend that house where we had received so much
kindness and hospitality, I saw the first and last charge of Pedrito's
horsemen upon Barrios's troops, who had just taken the Harbour Gate. They
could not stand the new rifles brought out by that poor Decoud. It was a
murderous fire. In a moment the street became blocked with a mass of dead
men and horses. They never came on again."
And all day Captain Mitchell would talk like this to his more or less
"The Plaza. I call it magnificent. Twice the area of Trafalgar
From the very centre, in the blazing sunshine, he pointed out the
"The Intendencia, now President's Palace--Cabildo, where the Lower
Chamber of Parliament sits. You notice the new houses on that side of the
Plaza? Compania Anzani, a great general store, like those cooperative things
at home. Old Anzani was murdered by the National Guards in front of his
safe. It was even for that specific crime that the deputy Gamacho,
commanding the Nationals, a bloodthirsty and savage brute, was executed
publicly by garrotte upon the sentence of a court-martial ordered by
Barrios. Anzani's nephews converted the business into a company. All that
side of the Plaza had been burnt; used to be colonnaded before. A terrible
fire, by the light of which I saw the last of the fighting, the llaneros
flying, the Nationals throwing their arms down, and the miners of San Tome,
all Indians from the Sierra, rolling by like a torrent to the sound of pipes
and cymbals, green flags flying, a wild mass of men in white ponchos and
green hats, on foot, on mules, on donkeys. Such a sight, sir, will never be
seen again. The miners, sir, had marched upon the town, Don Pepe leading on
his black horse, and their very wives in the rear on burros, screaming
encouragement, sir, and beating tambourines. I remember one of these women
had a green parrot seated on her shoulder, as calm as a bird of stone. They
had just saved their Senor Administrador; for Barrios, though he ordered the
assault at once, at night, too, would have been too late. Pedrito Montero
had Don Carlos led out to be shot--like his uncle many years ago--and then,
as Barrios said afterwards, 'Sulaco would not have been worth fighting for.'
Sulaco without the Concession was nothing; and there were tons and tons of
dynamite distributed all over the mountain with detonators arranged, and an
old priest, Father Roman, standing by to annihilate the San Tome mine at the
first news of failure. Don Carlos had made up his mind not to leave it
behind, and he had the right men to see to it, too."
Thus Captain Mitchell would talk in the middle of the Plaza, holding over
his head a white umbrella with a green lining; but inside the cathedral, in
the dim light, with a faint scent of incense floating in the cool
atmosphere, and here and there a kneeling female figure, black or all white,
with a veiled head, his lowered voice became solemn and impressive.
"Here," he would say, pointing to a niche in the wall of the dusky
aisle, "you see the bust of Don Jose Avellanos, 'Patriot and
Statesman,' as the inscription says, 'Minister to Courts of England and
Spain, etc., etc., died in the woods of Los Hatos worn out with his lifelong
struggle for Right and Justice at the dawn of the New Era.' A fair likeness.
Parrochetti's work from some old photographs and a pencil sketch by Mrs.
Gould. I was well acquainted with that distinguished Spanish-American of the
old school, a true Hidalgo, beloved by everybody who knew him. The marble
medallion in the wall, in the antique style, representing a veiled woman
seated with her hands clasped loosely over her knees, commemorates that
unfortunate young gentleman who sailed out with Nostromo on that fatal
night, sir. See, 'To the memory of Martin Decoud, his betrothed Antonia
Avellanos.' Frank, simple, noble. There you have that lady, sir, as she is.
An exceptional woman. Those who thought she would give way to despair were
mistaken, sir. She has been blamed in many quarters for not having taken the
veil. It was expected of her. But Dona Antonia is not the stuff they make
nuns of. Bishop Corbelan, her uncle, lives with her in the Corbelan town
house. He is a fierce sort of priest, everlastingly worrying the Government
about the old Church lands and convents. I believe they think a lot of him
in Rome. Now let us go to the Amarilla Club, just across the Plaza, to get
Directly outside the cathedral on the very top of the noble flight of steps,
his voice rose pompously, his arm found again its sweeping gesture.
"Porvenir, over there on that first floor, above those French
plate-glass shop-fronts; our biggest daily. Conservative, or, rather, I
should say, Parliamentary. We have the Parliamentary party here of which the
actual Chief of the State, Don Juste Lopez, is the head; a very sagacious
man, I think. A first-rate intellect, sir. The Democratic party in
opposition rests mostly, I am sorry to say, on these socialistic Italians,
sir, with their secret societies, camorras, and such-like. There are lots of
Italians settled here on the railway lands, dismissed navvies, mechanics,
and so on, all along the trunk line. There are whole villages of Italians on
the Campo. And the natives, too, are being drawn into these ways . . .
American bar? Yes. And over there you can see another. New Yorkers mostly
frequent that one----Here we are at the Amarilla. Observe the bishop at the
foot of the stairs to the right as we go in."
And the lunch would begin and terminate its lavish and leisurely course at a
little table in the gallery, Captain Mitchell nodding, bowing, getting up to
speak for a moment to different officials in black clothes, merchants in
jackets, officers in uniform, middle-aged caballeros from the Campo--sallow,
little, nervous men, and fat, placid, swarthy men, and Europeans or North
Americans of superior standing, whose faces looked very white amongst the
majority of dark complexions and black, glistening eyes.
Captain Mitchell would lie back in the chair, casting around looks of
satisfaction, and tender over the table a case full of thick cigars.
"Try a weed with your coffee. Local tobacco. The black coffee you get
at the Amarilla, sir, you don't meet anywhere in the world. We get the bean
from a famous cafeteria in the foot-hills, whose owner sends three sacks
every year as a present to his fellow members in remembrance of the fight
against Gamacho's Nationals, carried on from these very windows by the
caballeros. He was in town at the time, and took part, sir, to the bitter
end. It arrives on three mules--not in the common way, by rail; no
fear!--right into the patio, escorted by mounted peons, in charge of the
Mayoral of his estate, who walks upstairs, booted and spurred, and delivers
it to our committee formally with the words, 'For the sake of those fallen
on the third of May.' We call it Tres de Mayo coffee. Taste it."
Captain Mitchell, with an expression as though making ready to hear a sermon
in a church, would lift the tiny cup to his lips. And the nectar would be
sipped to the bottom during a restful silence in a cloud of cigar smoke.
"Look at this man in black just going out," he would begin,
leaning forward hastily. "This is the famous Hernandez, Minister of
War. The Times' special correspondent, who wrote that striking series of
letters calling the Occidental Republic the 'Treasure House of the World,'
gave a whole article to him and the force he has organized--the renowned
Carabineers of the Campo."
Captain Mitchell's guest, staring curiously, would see a figure in a
long-tailed black coat walking gravely, with downcast eyelids in a long,
composed face, a brow furrowed horizontally, a pointed head, whose grey
hair, thin at the top, combed down carefully on all sides and rolled at the
ends, fell low on the neck and shoulders. This, then, was the famous bandit
of whom Europe had heard with interest. He put on a high-crowned sombrero
with a wide flat brim; a rosary of wooden beads was twisted about his right
wrist. And Captain Mitchell would proceed--
"The protector of the Sulaco refugees from the rage of Pedrito. As
general of cavalry with Barrios he distinguished himself at the storming of
Tonoro, where Senor Fuentes was killed with the last remnant of the
Monterists. He is the friend and humble servant of Bishop Corbelan. Hears
three Masses every day. I bet you he will step into the cathedral to say a
prayer or two on his way home to his siesta."
He took several puffs at his cigar in silence; then, in his most important
"The Spanish race, sir, is prolific of remarkable characters in every
rank of life. . . . I propose we go now into the billiard-room, which is
cool, for a quiet chat. There's never anybody there till after five. I could
tell you episodes of the Separationist revolution that would astonish you.
When the great heat's over, we'll take a turn on the Alameda."
The programme went on relentless, like a law of Nature. The turn on the
Alameda was taken with slow steps and stately remarks.
"All the great world of Sulaco here, sir." Captain Mitchell bowed
right and left with no end of formality; then with animation, "Dona
Emilia, Mrs. Gould's carriage. Look. Always white mules. The kindest, most
gracious woman the sun ever shone upon. A great position, sir. A great
position. First lady in Sulaco--far before the President's wife. And worthy
of it." He took off his hat; then, with a studied change of tone,
added, negligently, that the man in black by her side, with a high white
collar and a scarred, snarly face, was Dr. Monygham, Inspector of State
Hospitals, chief medical officer of the Consolidated San Tome mines. "A
familiar of the house. Everlastingly there. No wonder. The Goulds made him.
Very clever man and all that, but I never liked him. Nobody does. I can
recollect him limping about the streets in a check shirt and native sandals
with a watermelon under his arm--all he would get to eat for the day. A
big-wig now, sir, and as nasty as ever. However . . . There's no doubt he
played his part fairly well at the time. He saved us all from the deadly
incubus of Sotillo, where a more particular man might have failed----"
His arm went up.
"The equestrian statue that used to stand on the pedestal over there
has been removed. It was an anachronism," Captain Mitchell commented,
obscurely. "There is some talk of replacing it by a marble shaft
commemorative of Separation, with angels of peace at the four corners, and
bronze Justice holding an even balance, all gilt, on the top. Cavaliere
Parrochetti was asked to make a design, which you can see framed under glass
in the Municipal Sala. Names are to be engraved all round the base. Well!
They could do no better than begin with the name of Nostromo. He has done
for Separation as much as anybody else, and," added Captain Mitchell,
"has got less than many others by it--when it comes to that." He
dropped on to a stone seat under a tree, and tapped invitingly at the place
by his side. "He carried to Barrios the letters from Sulaco which
decided the General to abandon Cayta for a time, and come back to our help
here by sea. The transports were still in harbour fortunately. Sir, I did
not even know that my Capataz de Cargadores was alive. I had no idea. It was
Dr. Monygham who came upon him, by chance, in the Custom House, evacuated an
hour or two before by the wretched Sotillo. I was never told; never given a
hint, nothing--as if I were unworthy of confidence. Monygham arranged it
all. He went to the railway yards, and got admission to the
engineer-in-chief, who, for the sake of the Goulds as much as for anything
else, consented to let an engine make a dash down the line, one hundred and
eighty miles, with Nostromo aboard. It was the only way to get him off. In
the Construction Camp at the railhead, he obtained a horse, arms, some
clothing, and started alone on that marvellous ride--four hundred miles in
six days, through a disturbed country, ending by the feat of passing through
the Monterist lines outside Cayta. The history of that ride, sir, would make
a most exciting book. He carried all our lives in his pocket. Devotion,
courage, fidelity, intelligence were not enough. Of course, he was perfectly
fearless and incorruptible. But a man was wanted that would know how to
succeed. He was that man, sir. On the fifth of May, being practically a
prisoner in the Harbour Office of my Company, I suddenly heard the whistle
of an engine in the railway yards, a quarter of a mile away. I could not
believe my ears. I made one jump on to the balcony, and beheld a locomotive
under a great head of steam run out of the yard gates, screeching like mad,
enveloped in a white cloud, and then, just abreast of old Viola's inn, check
almost to a standstill. I made out, sir, a man--I couldn't tell who--dash
out of the Albergo d'ltalia Una, climb into the cab, and then, sir, that
engine seemed positively to leap clear of the house, and was gone in the
twinkling of an eye. As you blow a candle out, sir! There was a first-rate
driver on the foot-plate, sir, I can tell you. They were fired heavily upon
by the National Guards in Rincon and one other place. Fortunately the line
had not been torn up. In four hours they reached the Construction Camp.
Nostromo had his start. . . . The rest you know. You've got only to look
round you. There are people on this Alameda that ride in their carriages, or
even are alive at all to-day, because years ago I engaged a runaway Italian
sailor for a foreman of our wharf simply on the strength of his looks. And
that's a fact. You can't get over it, sir. On the seventeenth of May, just
twelve days after I saw the man from the Casa Viola get on the engine, and
wondered what it meant, Barrios's transports were entering this harbour, and
the 'Treasure House of the World,' as The Times man calls Sulaco in his
book, was saved intact for civilization--for a great future, sir. Pedrito,
with Hernandez on the west, and the San Tome miners pressing on the land
gate, was not able to oppose the landing. He had been sending messages to
Sotillo for a week to join him. Had Sotillo done so there would have been
massacres and proscription that would have left no man or woman of position
alive. But that's where Dr. Monygham comes in. Sotillo, blind and deaf to
everything, stuck on board his steamer watching the dragging for silver,
which he believed to be sunk at the bottom of the harbour. They say that for
the last three days he was out of his mind raving and foaming with
disappointment at getting nothing, flying about the deck, and yelling curses
at the boats with the drags, ordering them in, and then suddenly stamping
his foot and crying out, 'And yet it is there! I see it! I feel it!'
"He was preparing to hang Dr. Monygham (whom he had on board) at the
end of the after-derrick, when the first of Barrios's transports, one of our
own ships at that, steamed right in, and ranging close alongside opened a
small-arm fire without as much preliminaries as a hail. It was the
completest surprise in the world, sir. They were too astounded at first to
bolt below. Men were falling right and left like ninepins. It's a miracle
that Monygham, standing on the after-hatch with the rope already round his
neck, escaped being riddled through and through like a sieve. He told me
since that he had given himself up for lost, and kept on yelling with all
the strength of his lungs: 'Hoist a white flag! Hoist a white flag!'
Suddenly an old major of the Esmeralda regiment, standing by, unsheathed his
sword with a shriek: 'Die, perjured traitor!' and ran Sotillo clean through
the body, just before he fell himself shot through the head."
Captain Mitchell stopped for a while.
"Begad, sir! I could spin you a yarn for hours. But it's time we
started off to Rincon. It would not do for you to pass through Sulaco and
not see the lights of the San Tome mine, a whole mountain ablaze like a
lighted palace above the dark Campo. It's a fashionable drive. . . . But let
me tell you one little anecdote, sir; just to show you. A fortnight or more
later, when Barrios, declared Generalissimo, was gone in pursuit of Pedrito
away south, when the Provisional Junta, with Don Juste Lopez at its head,
had promulgated the new Constitution, and our Don Carlos Gould was packing
up his trunks bound on a mission to San Francisco and Washington (the United
States, sir, were the first great power to recognize the Occidental
Republic)--a fortnight later, I say, when we were beginning to feel that our
heads were safe on our shoulders, if I may express myself so, a prominent
man, a large shipper by our line, came to see me on business, and, says he,
the first thing: 'I say, Captain Mitchell, is that fellow' (meaning Nostromo)
'still the Capataz of your Cargadores or not?' 'What's the matter?' says I.
'Because, if he is, then I don't mind; I send and receive a good lot of
cargo by your ships; but I have observed him several days loafing about the
wharf, and just now he stopped me as cool as you please, with a request for
a cigar. Now, you know, my cigars are rather special, and I can't get them
so easily as all that.' 'I hope you stretched a point,' I said, very gently.
'Why, yes. But it's a confounded nuisance. The fellow's everlastingly
cadging for smokes.' Sir, I turned my eyes away, and then asked, 'Weren't
you one of the prisoners in the Cabildo?' 'You know very well I was, and in
chains, too,' says he. 'And under a fine of fifteen thousand dollars?' He
coloured, sir, because it got about that he fainted from fright when they
came to arrest him, and then behaved before Fuentes in a manner to make the
very policianos, who had dragged him there by the hair of his head, smile at
his cringing. 'Yes,' he says, in a sort of shy way. 'Why?' 'Oh, nothing. You
stood to lose a tidy bit,' says I, 'even if you saved your life. . . . But
what can I do for you?' He never even saw the point. Not he. And that's how
the world wags, sir."
He rose a little stiffly, and the drive to Rincon would be taken with only
one philosophical remark, uttered by the merciless cicerone, with his eyes
fixed upon the lights of San Tome, that seemed suspended in the dark night
between earth and heaven.
"A great power, this, for good and evil, sir. A great power."
And the dinner of the Mirliflores would be eaten, excellent as to cooking,
and leaving upon the traveller's mind an impression that there were in
Sulaco many pleasant, able young men with salaries apparently too large for
their discretion, and amongst them a few, mostly Anglo-Saxon, skilled in the
art of, as the saying is, "taking a rise" out of his kind host.
With a rapid, jingling drive to the harbour in a twowheeled machine (which
Captain Mitchell called a curricle) behind a fleet and scraggy mule beaten
all the time by an obviously Neapolitan driver, the cycle would be nearly
closed before the lighted-up offices of the O. S. N. Company, remaining open
so late because of the steamer. Nearly--but not quite.
"Ten o'clock. Your ship won't be ready to leave till half-past twelve,
if by then. Come in for a brandy-and-soda and one more cigar."
And in the superintendent's private room the privileged passenger by the
Ceres, or Juno, or Pallas, stunned and as it were annihilated mentally by a
sudden surfeit of sights, sounds, names, facts, and complicated information
imperfectly apprehended, would listen like a tired child to a fairy tale;
would hear a voice, familiar and surprising in its pompousness, tell him, as
if from another world, how there was "in this very harbour" an
international naval demonstration, which put an end to the Costaguana-Sulaco
War. How the United States cruiser, Powhattan, was the first to salute the
Occidental flag--white, with a wreath of green laurel in the middle
encircling a yellow amarilla flower. Would hear how General Montero, in less
than a month after proclaiming himself Emperor of Costaguana, was shot dead
(during a solemn and public distribution of orders and crosses) by a young
artillery officer, the brother of his then mistress.
"The abominable Pedrito, sir, fled the country," the voice would
say. And it would continue: "A captain of one of our ships told me
lately that he recognized Pedrito the Guerrillero, arrayed in purple
slippers and a velvet smoking-cap with a gold tassel, keeping a disorderly
house in one of the southern ports."
"Abominable Pedrito! Who the devil was he?" would wonder the
distinguished bird of passage hovering on the confines of waking and sleep
with resolutely open eyes and a faint but amiable curl upon his lips, from
between which stuck out the eighteenth or twentieth cigar of that memorable
"He appeared to me in this very room like a haunting ghost,
sir"--Captain Mitchell was talking of his Nostromo with true warmth of
feeling and a touch of wistful pride. "You may imagine, sir, what an
effect it produced on me. He had come round by sea with Barrios, of course.
And the first thing he told me after I became fit to hear him was that he
had picked up the lighter's boat floating in the gulf! He seemed quite
overcome by the circumstance. And a remarkable enough circumstance it was,
when you remember that it was then sixteen days since the sinking of the
silver. At once I could see he was another man. He stared at the wall, sir,
as if there had been a spider or something running about there. The loss of
the silver preyed on his mind. The first thing he asked me about was whether
Dona Antonia had heard yet of Decoud's death. His voice trembled. I had to
tell him that Dona Antonia, as a matter of fact, was not back in town yet.
Poor girl! And just as I was making ready to ask him a thousand questions,
with a sudden, 'Pardon me, senor,' he cleared out of the office altogether.
I did not see him again for three days. I was terribly busy, you know. It
seems that he wandered about in and out of the town, and on two nights
turned up to sleep in the baracoons of the railway people. He seemed
absolutely indifferent to what went on. I asked him on the wharf, 'When are
you going to take hold again, Nostromo? There will be plenty of work for the
"'Senor,' says he, looking at me in a slow, inquisitive manner, 'would
it surprise you to hear that I am too tired to work just yet? And what work
could I do now? How can I look my Cargadores in the face after losing a
"I begged him not to think any more about the silver, and he smiled. A
smile that went to my heart, sir. 'It was no mistake,' I told him. 'It was a
fatality. A thing that could not be helped.' 'Si, si!" he said, and
turned away. I thought it best to leave him alone for a bit to get over it.
Sir, it took him years really, to get over it. I was present at his
interview with Don Carlos. I must say that Gould is rather a cold man. He
had to keep a tight hand on his feelings, dealing with thieves and rascals,
in constant danger of ruin for himself and wife for so many years, that it
had become a second nature. They looked at each other for a long time. Don
Carlos asked what he could do for him, in his quiet, reserved way.
"'My name is known from one end of Sulaco to the other,' he said, as
quiet as the other. 'What more can you do for me?' That was all that passed
on that occasion. Later, however, there was a very fine coasting schooner
for sale, and Mrs. Gould and I put our heads together to get her bought and
presented to him. It was done, but he paid all the price back within the
next three years. Business was booming all along this seaboard, sir.
Moreover, that man always succeeded in everything except in saving the
silver. Poor Dona Antonia, fresh from her terrible experiences in the woods
of Los Hatos, had an interview with him, too. Wanted to hear about Decoud:
what they said, what they did, what they thought up to the last on that
fatal night. Mrs. Gould told me his manner was perfect for quietness and
sympathy. Miss Avellanos burst into tears only when he told her how Decoud
had happened to say that his plan would be a glorious success. . . . And
there's no doubt, sir, that it is. It is a success."
The cycle was about to close at last. And while the privileged passenger,
shivering with the pleasant anticipations of his berth, forgot to ask
himself, "What on earth Decoud's plan could be?" Captain Mitchell
was saying, "Sorry we must part so soon. Your intelligent interest made
this a pleasant day to me. I shall see you now on board. You had a glimpse
of the 'Treasure House of the World.' A very good name that." And the
coxswain's voice at the door, announcing that the gig was ready, closed the
Nostromo had, indeed, found the lighter's boat, which he had left on the
Great Isabel with Decoud, floating empty far out in the gulf. He was then on
the bridge of the first of Barrios's transports, and within an hour's
steaming from Sulaco. Barrios, always delighted with a feat of daring and a
good judge of courage, had taken a great liking to the Capataz. During the
passage round the coast the General kept Nostromo near his person,
addressing him frequently in that abrupt and boisterous manner which was the
sign of his high favour.
Nostromo's eyes were the first to catch, broad on the bow, the tiny, elusive
dark speck, which, alone with the forms of the Three Isabels right ahead,
appeared on the flat, shimmering emptiness of the gulf. There are times when
no fact should be neglected as insignificant; a small boat so far from the
land might have had some meaning worth finding out. At a nod of consent from
Barrios the transport swept out of her course, passing near enough to
ascertain that no one manned the little cockle-shell. It was merely a common
small boat gone adrift with her oars in her. But Nostromo, to whose mind
Decoud had been insistently present for days, had long before recognized
with excitement the dinghy of the lighter.
There could be no question of stopping to pick up that thing. Every minute
of time was momentous with the lives and futures of a whole town. The head
of the leading ship, with the General on board, fell off to her course.
Behind her, the fleet of transports, scattered haphazard over a mile or so
in the offing, like the finish of an ocean race, pressed on, all black and
smoking on the western sky.
"Mi General," Nostromo's voice rang out loud, but quiet, from
behind a group of officers, "I should like to save that little boat.
Por Dios, I know her. She belongs to my Company."
"And, por Dios," guffawed Barrios, in a noisy, goodhumoured voice,
"you belong to me. I am going to make you a captain of cavalry directly
we get within sight of a horse again."
"I can swim far better than I can ride, mi General," cried
Nostromo, pushing through to the rail with a set stare in his eyes.
"Let you? What a conceited fellow that is," bantered the General,
jovially, without even looking at him. "Let him go! Ha! ha! ha! He
wants me to admit that we cannot take Sulaco without him! Ha! ha! ha! Would
you like to swim off to her, my son?"
A tremendous shout from one end of the ship to the other stopped his guffaw.
Nostromo had leaped overboard; and his black head bobbed up far away already
from the ship. The General muttered an appalled "Cielo! Sinner that I
am!" in a thunderstruck tone. One anxious glance was enough to show him
that Nostromo was swimming with perfect ease; and then he thundered
terribly, "No! no! We shall not stop to pick up this impertinent
fellow. Let him drown--that mad Capataz."
Nothing short of main force would have kept Nostromo from leaping overboard.
That empty boat, coming out to meet him mysteriously, as if rowed by an
invisible spectre, exercised the fascination of some sign, of some warning,
seemed to answer in a startling and enigmatic way the persistent thought of
a treasure and of a man's fate. He would have leaped if there had been death
in that half-mile of water. It was as smooth as a pond, and for some reason
sharks are unknown in the Placid Gulf, though on the other side of the Punta
Mala the coastline swarms with them.
The Capataz seized hold of the stern and blew with force. A queer, faint
feeling had come over him while he swam. He had got rid of his boots and
coat in the water. He hung on for a time, regaining his breath. In the
distance the transports, more in a bunch now, held on straight for Sulaco,
with their air of friendly contest, of nautical sport, of a regatta; and the
united smoke of their funnels drove like a thin, sulphurous fogbank right
over his head. It was his daring, his courage, his act that had set these
ships in motion upon the sea, hurrying on to save the lives and fortunes of
the Blancos, the taskmasters of the people; to save the San Tome mine; to
save the children.
With a vigorous and skilful effort he clambered over the stern. The very
boat! No doubt of it; no doubt whatever. It was the dinghy of the lighter
No. 3--the dinghy left with Martin Decoud on the Great Isabel so that he
should have some means to help himself if nothing could be done for him from
the shore. And here she had come out to meet him empty and inexplicable.
What had become of Decoud? The Capataz made a minute examination. He looked
for some scratch, for some mark, for some sign. All he discovered was a
brown stain on the gunwale abreast of the thwart. He bent his face over it
and rubbed hard with his finger. Then he sat down in the stern sheets,
passive, with his knees close together and legs aslant.
Streaming from head to foot, with his hair and whiskers hanging lank and
dripping and a lustreless stare fixed upon the bottom boards, the Capataz of
the Sulaco Cargadores resembled a drowned corpse come up from the bottom to
idle away the sunset hour in a small boat. The excitement of his adventurous
ride, the excitement of the return in time, of achievement, of success, all
this excitement centred round the associated ideas of the great treasure and
of the only other man who knew of its existence, had departed from him. To
the very last moment he had been cudgelling his brains as to how he could
manage to visit the Great Isabel without loss of time and undetected. For
the idea of secrecy had come to be connected with the treasure so closely
that even to Barrios himself he had refrained from mentioning the existence
of Decoud and of the silver on the island. The letters he carried to the
General, however, made brief mention of the loss of the lighter, as having
its bearing upon the situation in Sulaco. In the circumstances, the one-eyed
tiger-slayer, scenting battle from afar, had not wasted his time in making
inquiries from the messenger. In fact, Barrios, talking with Nostromo,
assumed that both Don Martin Decoud and the ingots of San Tome were lost
together, and Nostromo, not questioned directly, had kept silent, under the
influence of some indefinable form of resentment and distrust. Let Don
Martin speak of everything with his own lips--was what he told himself
And now, with the means of gaining the Great Isabel thrown thus in his way
at the earliest possible moment, his excitement had departed, as when the
soul takes flight leaving the body inert upon an earth it knows no more.
Nostromo did not seem to know the gulf. For a long time even his eyelids did
not flutter once upon the glazed emptiness of his stare. Then slowly,
without a limb having stirred, without a twitch of muscle or quiver of an
eyelash, an expression, a living expression came upon the still features,
deep thought crept into the empty stare--as if an outcast soul, a quiet,
brooding soul, finding that untenanted body in its way, had come in
stealthily to take possession.
The Capataz frowned: and in the immense stillness of sea, islands, and
coast, of cloud forms on the sky and trails of light upon the water, the
knitting of that brow had the emphasis of a powerful gesture. Nothing else
budged for a long time; then the Capataz shook his head and again
surrendered himself to the universal repose of all visible things. Suddenly
he seized the oars, and with one movement made the dinghy spin round,
head-on to the Great Isabel. But before he began to pull he bent once more
over the brown stain on the gunwale.
"I know that thing," he muttered to himself, with a sagacious jerk
of the head. "That's blood."
His stroke was long, vigorous, and steady. Now and then he looked over his
shoulder at the Great Isabel, presenting its low cliff to his anxious gaze
like an impenetrable face. At last the stem touched the strand. He flung
rather than dragged the boat up the little beach. At once, turning his back
upon the sunset, he plunged with long strides into the ravine, making the
water of the stream spurt and fly upwards at every step, as if spurning its
shallow, clear, murmuring spirit with his feet. He wanted to save every
moment of daylight.
A mass of earth, grass, and smashed bushes had fallen down very naturally
from above upon the cavity under the leaning tree. Decoud had attended to
the concealment of the silver as instructed, using the spade with some
intelligence. But Nostromo's half-smile of approval changed into a scornful
curl of the lip by the sight of the spade itself flung there in full view,
as if in utter carelessness or sudden panic, giving away the whole thing.
Ah! They were all alike in their folly, these hombres finos that invented
laws and governments and barren tasks for the people.
The Capataz picked up the spade, and with the feel of the handle in his palm
the desire of having a look at the horse-hide boxes of treasure came upon
him suddenly. In a very few strokes he uncovered the edges and corners of
several; then, clearing away more earth, became aware that one of them had
been slashed with a knife.
He exclaimed at that discovery in a stifled voice, and dropped on his knees
with a look of irrational apprehension over one shoulder, then over the
other. The stiff hide had closed, and he hesitated before he pushed his hand
through the long slit and felt the ingots inside. There they were. One, two,
three. Yes, four gone. Taken away. Four ingots. But who? Decoud? Nobody
else. And why? For what purpose? For what cursed fancy? Let him explain.
Four ingots carried off in a boat, and--blood!
In the face of the open gulf, the sun, clear, unclouded, unaltered, plunged
into the waters in a grave and untroubled mystery of self-immolation
consummated far from all mortal eyes, with an infinite majesty of silence
and peace. Four ingots short!--and blood!
The Capataz got up slowly.
"He might simply have cut his hand," he muttered. "But,
He sat down on the soft earth, unresisting, as if he had been chained to the
treasure, his drawn-up legs clasped in his hands with an air of hopeless
submission, like a slave set on guard. Once only he lifted his head smartly:
the rattle of hot musketry fire had reached his ears, like pouring from on
high a stream of dry peas upon a drum. After listening for a while, he said,
"He will never come back to explain."
And he lowered his head again.
"Impossible!" he muttered, gloomily.
The sounds of firing died out. The loom of a great conflagration in Sulaco
flashed up red above the coast, played on the clouds at the head of the
gulf, seemed to touch with a ruddy and sinister reflection the forms of the
Three Isabels. He never saw it, though he raised his head.
"But, then, I cannot know," he pronounced, distinctly, and
remained silent and staring for hours.
He could not know. Nobody was to know. As might have been supposed, the end
of Don Martin Decoud never became a subject of speculation for any one
except Nostromo. Had the truth of the facts been known, there would always
have remained the question. Why? Whereas the version of his death at the
sinking of the lighter had no uncertainty of motive. The young apostle of
Separation had died striving for his idea by an ever-lamented accident. But
the truth was that he died from solitude, the enemy known but to few on this
earth, and whom only the simplest of us are fit to withstand. The brilliant
Costaguanero of the boulevards had died from solitude and want of faith in
himself and others.
For some good and valid reasons beyond mere human comprehension, the
sea-birds of the gulf shun the Isabels. The rocky head of Azuera is their
haunt, whose stony levels and chasms resound with their wild and tumultuous
clamour as if they were for ever quarrelling over the legendary treasure.
At the end of his first day on the Great Isabel, Decoud, turning in his lair
of coarse grass, under the shade of a tree, said to himself--
"I have not seen as much as one single bird all day."
And he had not heard a sound, either, all day but that one now of his own
muttering voice. It had been a day of absolute silence--the first he had
known in his life. And he had not slept a wink. Not for all these wakeful
nights and the days of fighting, planning, talking; not for all that last
night of danger and hard physical toil upon the gulf, had he been able to
close his eyes for a moment. And yet from sunrise to sunset he had been
lying prone on the ground, either on his back or on his face.
He stretched himself, and with slow steps descended into the gully to spend
the night by the side of the silver. If Nostromo returned--as he might have
done at any moment--it was there that he would look first; and night would,
of course, be the proper time for an attempt to communicate. He remembered
with profound indifference that he had not eaten anything yet since he had
been left alone on the island.
He spent the night open-eyed, and when the day broke he ate something with
the same indifference. The brilliant "Son Decoud," the spoiled
darling of the family, the lover of Antonia and journalist of Sulaco, was
not fit to grapple with himself single-handed. Solitude from mere outward
condition of existence becomes very swiftly a state of soul in which the
affectations of irony and scepticism have no place. It takes possession of
the mind, and drives forth the thought into the exile of utter unbelief.
After three days of waiting for the sight of some human face, Decoud caught
himself entertaining a doubt of his own individuality. It had merged into
the world of cloud and water, of natural forces and forms of nature. In our
activity alone do we find the sustaining illusion of an independent
existence as against the whole scheme of things of which we form a helpless
part. Decoud lost all belief in the reality of his action past and to come.
On the fifth day an immense melancholy descended upon him palpably. He
resolved not to give himself up to these people in Sulaco, who had beset
him, unreal and terrible, like jibbering and obscene spectres. He saw
himself struggling feebly in their midst, and Antonia, gigantic and lovely
like an allegorical statue, looking on with scornful eyes at his weakness.
Not a living being, not a speck of distant sail, appeared within the range
of his vision; and, as if to escape from this solitude, he absorbed himself
in his melancholy. The vague consciousness of a misdirected life given up to
impulses whose memory left a bitter taste in his mouth was the first moral
sentiment of his manhood. But at the same time he felt no remorse. What
should he regret? He had recognized no other virtue than intelligence, and
had erected passions into duties. Both his intelligence and his passion were
swallowed up easily in this great unbroken solitude of waiting without
faith. Sleeplessness had robbed his will of all energy, for he had not slept
seven hours in the seven days. His sadness was the sadness of a sceptical
mind. He beheld the universe as a succession of incomprehensible images.
Nostromo was dead. Everything had failed ignominiously. He no longer dared
to think of Antonia. She had not survived. But if she survived he could not
face her. And all exertion seemed senseless.
On the tenth day, after a night spent without even dozing off once (it had
occurred to him that Antonia could not possibly have ever loved a being so
impalpable as himself), the solitude appeared like a great void, and the
silence of the gulf like a tense, thin cord to which he hung suspended by
both hands, without fear, without surprise, without any sort of emotion
whatever. Only towards the evening, in the comparative relief of coolness,
he began to wish that this cord would snap. He imagined it snapping with a
report as of a pistol--a sharp, full crack. And that would be the end of
him. He contemplated that eventuality with pleasure, because he dreaded the
sleepless nights in which the silence, remaining unbroken in the shape of a
cord to which he hung with both hands, vibrated with senseless phrases,
always the same but utterly incomprehensible, about Nostromo, Antonia,
Barrios, and proclamations mingled into an ironical and senseless buzzing.
In the daytime he could look at the silence like a still cord stretched to
breakingpoint, with his life, his vain life, suspended to it like a weight.
"I wonder whether I would hear it snap before I fell," he asked
The sun was two hours above the horizon when he got up, gaunt, dirty,
white-faced, and looked at it with his red-rimmed eyes. His limbs obeyed him
slowly, as if full of lead, yet without tremor; and the effect of that
physical condition gave to his movements an unhesitating, deliberate
dignity. He acted as if accomplishing some sort of rite. He descended into
the gully; for the fascination of all that silver, with its potential power,
survived alone outside of himself. He picked up the belt with the revolver,
that was lying there, and buckled it round his waist. The cord of silence
could never snap on the island. It must let him fall and sink into the sea,
he thought. And sink! He was looking at the loose earth covering the
treasure. In the sea! His aspect was that of a somnambulist. He lowered
himself down on his knees slowly and went on grubbing with his fingers with
industrious patience till he uncovered one of the boxes. Without a pause, as
if doing some work done many times before, he slit it open and took four
ingots, which he put in his pockets. He covered up the exposed box again and
step by step came out of the gully. The bushes closed after him with a
It was on the third day of his solitude that he had dragged the dinghy near
the water with an idea of rowing away somewhere, but had desisted partly at
the whisper of lingering hope that Nostromo would return, partly from
conviction of utter uselessness of all effort. Now she wanted only a slight
shove to be set afloat. He had eaten a little every day after the first, and
had some muscular strength left yet. Taking up the oars slowly, he pulled
away from the cliff of the Great Isabel, that stood behind him warm with
sunshine, as if with the heat of life, bathed in a rich light from head to
foot as if in a radiance of hope and joy. He pulled straight towards the
setting sun. When the gulf had grown dark, he ceased rowing and flung the
sculls in. The hollow clatter they made in falling was the loudest noise he
had ever heard in his life. It was a revelation. It seemed to recall him
from far away, Actually the thought, "Perhaps I may sleep
to-night," passed through his mind. But he did not believe it. He
believed in nothing; and he remained sitting on the thwart.
The dawn from behind the mountains put a gleam into his unwinking eyes.
After a clear daybreak the sun appeared splendidly above the peaks of the
range. The great gulf burst into a glitter all around the boat; and in this
glory of merciless solitude the silence appeared again before him, stretched
taut like a dark, thin string.
His eyes looked at it while, without haste, he shifted his seat from the
thwart to the gunwale. They looked at it fixedly, while his hand, feeling
about his waist, unbuttoned the flap of the leather case, drew the revolver,
cocked it, brought it forward pointing at his breast, pulled the trigger,
and, with convulsive force, sent the still-smoking weapon hurtling through
the air. His eyes looked at it while he fell forward and hung with his
breast on the gunwale and the fingers of his right hand hooked under the
thwart. They looked----
"It is done," he stammered out, in a sudden flow of blood. His
last thought was: "I wonder how that Capataz died." The stiffness
of the fingers relaxed, and the lover of Antonia Avellanos rolled overboard
without having heard the cord of silence snap in the solitude of the Placid
Gulf, whose glittering surface remained untroubled by the fall of his body.
A victim of the disillusioned weariness which is the retribution meted out
to intellectual audacity, the brilliant Don Martin Decoud, weighted by the
bars of San Tome silver, disappeared without a trace, swallowed up in the
immense indifference of things. His sleepless, crouching figure was gone
from the side of the San Tome silver; and for a time the spirits of good and
evil that hover near every concealed treasure of the earth might have
thought that this one had been forgotten by all mankind. Then, after a few
days, another form appeared striding away from the setting sun to sit
motionless and awake in the narrow black gully all through the night, in
nearly the same pose, in the same place in which had sat that other
sleepless man who had gone away for ever so quietly in a small boat, about
the time of sunset. And the spirits of good and evil that hover about a
forbidden treasure understood well that the silver of San Tome was provided
now with a faithful and lifelong slave.
The magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, victim of the disenchanted vanity
which is the reward of audacious action, sat in the weary pose of a hunted
outcast through a night of sleeplessness as tormenting as any known to
Decoud, his companion in the most desperate affair of his life. And he
wondered how Decoud had died. But he knew the part he had played himself.
First a woman, then a man, abandoned both in their last extremity, for the
sake of this accursed treasure. It was paid for by a soul lost and by a
vanished life. The blank stillness of awe was succeeded by a gust of immense
pride. There was no one in the world but Gian' Battista Fidanza, Capataz de
Cargadores, the incorruptible and faithful Nostromo, to pay such a price.
He had made up his mind that nothing should be allowed now to rob him of his
bargain. Nothing. Decoud had died. But how? That he was dead he had not a
shadow of a doubt. But four ingots? . . . What for? Did he mean to come for
more--some other time?
The treasure was putting forth its latent power. It troubled the clear mind
of the man who had paid the price. He was sure that Decoud was dead. The
island seemed full of that whisper. Dead! Gone! And he caught himself
listening for the swish of bushes and the splash of the footfalls in the bed
of the brook. Dead! The talker, the novio of Dona Antonia!
"Ha!" he murmured, with his head on his knees, under the livid
clouded dawn breaking over the liberated Sulaco and upon the gulf as gray as
ashes. "It is to her that he will fly. To her that he will fly!"
And four ingots! Did he take them in revenge, to cast a spell, like the
angry woman who had prophesied remorse and failure, and yet had laid upon
him the task of saving the children? Well, he had saved the children. He had
defeated the spell of poverty and starvation. He had done it all alone--or
perhaps helped by the devil. Who cared? He had done it, betrayed as he was,
and saving by the same stroke the San Tome mine, which appeared to him
hateful and immense, lording it by its vast wealth over the valour, the
toil, the fidelity of the poor, over war and peace, over the labours of the
town, the sea, and the Campo.
The sun lit up the sky behind the peaks of the Cordillera. The Capataz
looked down for a time upon the fall of loose earth, stones, and smashed
bushes, concealing the hiding-place of the silver.
"I must grow rich very slowly," he meditated, aloud.