An Anarchist
A desperate taleTHAT year I spent the best two months of the dryseason on one of the estates -- in fact, on the principalcattle estate -- of a famous meat-extract manufacturingcompany.B.O.S. Bos. You have seen the three magic letterson the advertisement pages of magazines and news-papers, in the windows of provision merchants, and oncalendars for next year you receive by post in the monthof November. They scatter pamphlets also, written ina sickly enthusiastic style and in several languages,giving statistics of slaughter and bloodshed enoughto make a Turk turn faint. The "art" illustrating that"literature" represents in vivid and shining colours alarge and enraged black bull stamping upon a yellowsnake writhing in emerald-green grass, with a cobalt-blue sky for a background. It is atrocious and it is anallegory. The snake symbolizes disease, weakness --perhaps mere hunger, which last is the chronic diseaseof the majority of mankind. Of course everybodyknows the B. 0. S. Ltd., with its unrivalled products:Vinobos, Jellybos, and the latest unequalled perfection,Tribos, whose nourishment is offered to you not onlyhighly concentrated, but already half digested. Suchapparently is the love that Limited Company bears toits fellowmen -- even as the love of the father and motherpenguin for their hungry fledglings.Of course the capital of a country must be pro-ductively employed. I have nothing to say against thecompany. But being myself animated by feelings ofaffection towards my fellow-men, I am saddened by themodern system of advertising. Whatever evidence itoffers of enterprise, ingenuity, impudence, and resourcein certain individuals, it proves to my mind the wideprevalence of that form of mental degradation which iscalled gullibility.In various parts of the civilized and uncivilized worldI have had to swallow B. 0. S. with more or less benefitto myself, though without great pleasure. Preparedwith hot water and abundantly peppered to bring outthe taste, this extract is not really unpalatable. But Ihave never swallowed its advertisements. Perhapsthey have not gone far enough. As far as I can re-member they make no promise of everlasting youth tothe users of B. 0. S., nor yet have they claimed thepower of raising the dead for their estimable products.Why this austere reserve, I wonder? But I don't thinkthey would have had me even on these terms. What-ever form of mental degradation I may (being but hu-man) be suffering from, it is not the popular form. Iam not gullible.I have been at some pains to bring out distinctly thisstatement about myself in view of the story whichfollows. I have checked the facts as far as possible.I have turned up the files of French newspapers, and Ihave also talked with the officer who commands themilitary guard on the Ile Royale, when in the course ofmy travels I reached Cayenne. I believe the story to bein the main true. It is the sort of story that no man, Ithink, would ever invent about himself, for it is neithergrandiose nor flattering, nor yet funny enough togratify a perverted vanity.It concerns the engineer of the steam-launch belong-ing to the Maranon cattle estate of the B. 0. S. Co., Ltd.This estate is also an island -- an island as big as a smallprovince, lying in the estuary of a great South Americanriver. It is wild and not beautiful, but the grass grow-ing on its low plains seems to possess exceptionallynourishing and flavouring qualities. It resounds withthe lowing of innumerable herds -- a deep and distress-ing sound under the open sky, rising like a monstrousprotest of prisoners condemned to death. On themainland, across twenty miles of discoloured muddywater, there stands a city whose name, let us say, isHorta.But the most interesting characteristic of this island(which seems like a sort of penal settlement for con-demned cattle) consists in its being the only knownhabitat of an extremely rare and gorgeous butterfly.The species is even more rare than it is beautiful, whichis not saying little. I have already alluded to mytravels. I travelled at that time, but strictly for my-self and with a moderation unknown in our days ofround-the-world tickets. I even travelled with a pur-pose. As a matter of fact, I am -- "Ha, ha, ha! -- adesperate butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!"This was the tone in which Mr. Harry Gee, themanager of the cattle station, alluded to my pursuits.He seemed to consider me the greatest absurdity in theworld. On the other hand, the B. 0. S. Co., Ltd.,represented to him the acme of the nineteenth century'sachievement. I believe that he slept in his leggings andspurs. His days he spent in the saddle flying over theplains, followed by a train of half-wild horsemen, whocalled him Don Enrique, and who had no definite idea ofthe B. 0. S. Co., Ltd., which paid their wages. He wasan excellent manager, but I don't see why, when we metat meals, he should have thumped me on the back, withloud, derisive inquiries: "How's the deadly sportto-day? Butterflies going strong? Ha, ha, ha!" --especially as he charged me two dollars per diem for thehospitality of the B. 0. S. Co., Ltd., (capital L1,500,000,fully paid up), in whose balance-sheet for that yearthose monies are no doubt included. "I don't think Ican make it anything less in justice to my company,"he had remarked, with extreme gravity, when I wasarranging with him the terms of my stay on the island.His chaff would have been harmless enough ifintimacy of intercourse in the absence of all friendlyfeeling were not a thing detestable in itself. Moreover,his facetiousness was not very amusing. It consistedin the wearisome repetition of descriptive phrasesapplied to people with a burst of laughter. "Desperatebutterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!" was one sample of hispeculiar wit which he himself enjoyed so much. And inthe same vein of exquisite humour he called my at-tention to the engineer of the steam-launch, one day, aswe strolled on the path by the side of the creek.The man's head and shoulders emerged above thedeck, over which were scattered various tools of histrade and a few pieces of machinery. He was doingsome repairs to the engines. At the sound of our foot-steps he raised anxiously a grimy face with a pointedchin and a tiny fair moustache. What could be seen ofhis delicate features under the black smudges appearedto me wasted and livid in the greenish shade of theenormous tree spreading its foliage over the launchmoored close to the bank.To my great surprise, Harry Gee addressed him as"Crocodile," in that half-jeering, half-bullying tonewhich is characteristic of self-satisfaction in his delect-able kind:"How does the work get on, Crocodile?"I should have said before that the amiable Harry hadpicked up French of a sort somewhere -- in some colonyor other -- and that he pronounced it with a disagreeableforced precision as though he meant to guy the lan-guage. The man in the launch answered him quickly ina pleasant voice. His eyes had a liquid softness andhis teeth flashed dazzlingly white between his thin,drooping lips. The manager turned to me, very cheer-ful and loud, explaining:"I call him Crocodile because he lives half in, halfout of the creek. Amphibious -- see? There's nothingelse amphibious living on the island except crocodiles;so he must belong to the species -- eh? But in realityhe's nothing less than un citoyen anarchiste de Bar-celone.""A citizen anarchist from Barcelona?" I repeated,stupidly, looking down at the man. He had turned tohis work in the engine-well of the launch and presentedhis 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 fromover there?" the accomplished manager was down onhim truculently.At this the man straightened himself up, dropping aspanner he had been using, and faced us; but he trem-bled in all his limbs."I deny nothing, nothing, nothing!" he said, ex-citedly.He picked up the spanner and went to work againwithout paying any further attention to us. Afterlooking at him for a minute or so, we went away."Is he really an anarchist?" I asked, when out ofear-shot."I don't care a hang what he is," answered thehumorous official of the B. 0. S. Co. "I gave him thename because it suited me to label him in that way,It's good for the company.""For the company!" I exclaimed, stopping short."Aha!" he triumphed, tilting up his hairless pugface and straddling his thin, long legs. "That sur-prises you. I am bound to do my best for my company.They have enormous expenses. Why -- our agent inHorta tells me they spend fifty thousand pounds everyyear in advertising all over the world! One can't betoo economical in working the show. Well, just youlisten. When I took charge here the estate had nosteam-launch. I asked for one, and kept on askingby every mail till I got it; but the man they sent outwith it chucked his job at the end of two months, leav-ing the launch moored at the pontoon in Horta. Got abetter screw at a sawmill up the river -- blast him! Andever since it has been the same thing. Any Scotch orYankee vagabond that likes to call himself a mechanicout here gets eighteen pounds a month, and the nextyou know he's cleared out, after smashing somethingas likely as not. I give you my word that some of theobjects I've had for engine-drivers couldn't tell theboiler from the funnel. But this fellow understands histrade, and I don't mean him to clear out. See?"And he struck me lightly on the chest for emphasis.Disregarding his peculiarities of manner, I wanted toknow what all this had to do with the man being ananarchist."Come!" jeered the manager. "If you saw suddenlya barefooted, unkempt chap slinking amongst thebushes on the sea face of the island, and at the sametime observed less than a mile from the beach, a smallschooner full of niggers hauling off in a hurry, youwouldn't think the man fell there from the sky, wouldyou? And it could be nothing else but either that orCayenne. I've got my wits about me. Directly Isighted this queer game I said to myself -- 'EscapedConvict.' I was as certain of it as I am of seeing youstanding here this minute. So I spurred on straight athim. He stood his ground for a bit on a sand hillockcrying out: 'Monsieur! Monsieur! Arretez!' then atthe last moment broke and ran for life. Says I tomyself, 'I'll tame you before I'm done with you.' Sowithout a single word I kept on, heading him off hereand there. I rounded him up towards the shore, and atlast I had him corralled on a spit, his heels in the waterand nothing but sea and sky at his back, with my horsepawing the sand and shaking his head within a yardof him."He folded his arms on his breast then and stuck hischin up in a sort of desperate way; but I wasn't to beimpressed by the beggar's posturing."Says I, 'You're a runaway convict.'"When he heard French, his chin went down andhis face changed."'I deny nothing,' says he, panting yet, for I hadkept him skipping about in front of my horse prettysmartly. I asked him what he was doing there. Hehad got his breath by then, and explained that he hadmeant to make his way to a farm which he understood(from the schooner's people, I suppose) was to be foundin the neighbourhood. At that I laughed aloud and hegot uneasy. Had he been deceived? Was there nofarm within walking distance?"I laughed more and more. He was on foot, and ofcourse the first bunch of cattle he came across wouldhave stamped him to rags under their hoofs. A dis-mounted man caught on the feeding-grounds hasn't gotthe ghost of a chance."'My coming upon you like this has certainly savedyour life,' I said. He remarked that perhaps it was so;but that for his part he had imagined I had wanted tokill him under the hoofs of my horse. I assured himthat nothing would have been easier had I meant it.And then we came to a sort of dead stop. For the lifeof me I didn't know what to do with this convict, unlessI chucked him into the sea. It occurred to me to askhim what he had been transported for. He hung hishead."'What is it?' says I. 'Theft, murder, rape, orwhat?' I wanted to hear what he would have to sayfor himself, though of course I expected it would be somesort of lie. But all he said was --"'Make it what you like. I deny nothing. It is nogood denying anything.'"I looked him over carefully and a thought struckme."'They've got anarchists there, too,' I said. 'Per-haps you're one of them.'"'I deny nothing whatever, monsieur,' he repeats."This answer made me think that perhaps he was notan anarchist. I believe those damned lunatics arerather proud of themselves. If he had been one, hewould have probably confessed straight out."'What were you before you became a convict?'"'Ouvrier,' he says. 'And a good workman, too.'"At that I began to think he must be an anarchist,after all. That's the class they come mostly from, isn'tit? I hate the cowardly bomb-throwing brutes. Ialmost made up my mind to turn my horse short roundand leave him to starve or drown where he was, which-ever he liked best. As to crossing the island to botherme again, the cattle would see to that. I don't knowwhat induced me to ask --"'What sort of workman?'"I didn't care a hang whether he answered me ornot. But when he said at once, 'Mecanicien, monsieur,'I nearly jumped out of the saddle with excitement. Thelaunch had been lying disabled and idle in the creek forthree weeks. My duty to the company was clear. Henoticed my start, too, and there we were for a minute orso staring at each other as if bewitched."'Get up on my horse behind me,' I told him. 'Youshall put my steam-launch to rights.'"These are the words in which the worthy managerof the Maranon estate related to me the coming of thesupposed anarchist. He meant to keep him -- out of asense of duty to the company -- and the name he hadgiven him would prevent the fellow from obtainingemployment anywhere in Horta. The vaqueros of theestate, when they went on leave, spread it all over thetown. They did not know what an anarchist was, noryet what Barcelona meant. They called him Anarchistode Barcelona, as if it were his Christian name and sur-name. But the people in town had been reading intheir papers about the anarchists in Europe and werevery much impressed. Over the jocular addition of"de Barcelona" Mr. Harry Gee chuckled with immensesatisfaction. "That breed is particularly murderous,isn't it? It makes the sawmills crowd still more afraidof having anything to do with him -- see?" he exulted,candidly. "I hold him by that name better than if Ihad him chained up by the leg to the deck of the steam-launch."And mark," he added, after a pause, "he does notdeny it. I am not wronging him in any way. He is aconvict of some sort, anyhow.""But I suppose you pay him some wages, don't you?"I asked."Wages! What does he want with money here?He gets his food from my kitchen and his clothing fromthe store. Of course I'll give him something at the endof the year, but you don't think I'd employ a convictand give him the same money I would give an honestman? I am looking after the interests of my companyfirst and last."I admitted that, for a company spending fiftythousand pounds every year in advertising, the strictesteconomy was obviously necessary. The manager ofthe Maranon Estancia grunted approvingly."And I'll tell you what," he continued: "if I werecertain he's an anarchist and he had the cheek to ask mefor money, I would give him the toe of my boot. How-ever, let him have the benefit of the doubt. I am per-fectly willing to take it that he has done nothing worsethan to stick a knife into somebody -- with extenuatingcircumstances -- French fashion, don't you know. Butthat subversive sanguinary rot of doing away with alllaw and order in the world makes my blood boil. It'ssimply cutting the ground from under the feet of everydecent, respectable, hard-working person. I tell youthat the consciences of people who have them, like youor I, must be protected in some way; or else the firstlow scoundrel that came along would in every respect bejust as good as myself. Wouldn't he, now? And that'sabsurd!"He glared at me. I nodded slightly and murmuredthat doubtless there was much subtle truth in his view.The principal truth discoverable in the views of Paulthe engineer was that a little thing may bring about theundoing of a man."Il ne faut pas beaucoup pour perdre un homme," hesaid to me, thoughtfully, one evening.report this reflection in French, since the man wasof Paris, not of Barcelona at all. At the Maranon helived apart from the station, in a small shed with a metalroof and straw walls, which he called mon atelier. Hehad a work-bench there. They had given him severalhorse-blankets and a saddle -- not that he ever hadoccasion to ride, but because no other bedding wasused by the working-hands, who were all vaqueros --cattlemen. And on this horseman's gear, like a son ofthe plains, he used to sleep amongst the tools of histrade, in a litter of rusty scrap-iron, with a portableforge at his head, under the work-bench sustaining hisgrimy mosquito-net.Now and then I would bring him a few candle endssaved from the scant supply of the manager's house.He was very thankful for these. He did not like to lieawake in the dark, he confessed. He complained thatsleep fled from him. "Le sommeil me fuit," he declared,with his habitual air of subdued stoicism, which madehim sympathetic and touching. I made it clear to himthat I did not attach undue importance to the fact of hishaving been a convict.Thus it came about that one evening he was led totalk about himself. As one of the bits of candle on theedge of the bench burned down to the end, he hastenedto light another.He had done his military service in a provincialgarrison and returned to Paris to follow his trade. Itwas a well-paid one. He told me with some pride thatin a short time he was earning no less than ten francs aday. He was thinking of setting up for himself byand by and of getting married.Here he sighed deeply and paused. Then with areturn to his stoical note:"It seems I did not know enough about myself."On his twenty-fifth birthday two of his friends in therepairing shop where he worked proposed to stand hima dinner. He was immensely touched by this attention."I was a steady man," he remarked, "but I am notless sociable than any other body."The entertainment came off in a little cafe on theBoulevard de la Chapelle. At dinner they drank somespecial wine. It was excellent. Everything was excel-lent; and the world -- in his own words -- seemed a verygood place to live in. He had good prospects, somelittle money laid by, and the affection of two excellentfriends. He offered to pay for all the drinks afterdinner, which was only proper on his part.They drank more wine; they drank liqueurs, cognac,beer, then more liqueurs and more cognac. Twostrangers sitting at the next table looked at him, he said,with so much friendliness, that he invited them to jointhe party.He had never drunk so much in his life. His elationwas extreme, and so pleasurable that whenever itflagged he hastened to order more drinks."It seemed to me," he said, in his quiet tone andlooking on the ground in the gloomy shed full of shad-ows, "that I was on the point of just attaining a greatand wonderful felicity. Another drink, I felt, would doit. The others were holding out well with me, glass forglass."But an extraordinary thing happened. At somethingthe strangers said his elation fell. Gloomy ideas-- desidees noires -- rushed into his head. All the world out-side the cafe; appeared to him as a dismal evil placewhere a multitude of poor wretches had to work andslave to the sole end that a few individuals should ride incarriages and live riotously in palaces. He becameashamed of his happiness. The pity of mankind's cruellot wrung his heart. In a voice choked with sorrow hetried to express these sentiments. He thinks he weptand swore in turns.The two new acquaintances hastened to applaud hishumane indignation. Yes. The amount of injusticein the world was indeed scandalous. There was onlyone way of dealing with the rotten state of society.Demolish the whole sacree boutique. Blow up the wholeiniquitous show.Their heads hovered over the table. They whis-pered to him eloquently; I don't think they quiteexpected the result. He was extremely drunk -- maddrunk. With a howl of rage he leaped suddenly uponthe table. Kicking over the bottles and glasses, heyelled: "Vive l'anarchie! Death to the capitalists!"He yelled this again and again. All round him brokenglass was falling, chairs were being swung in the air,people were taking each other by the throat. Thepolice dashed in. He hit, bit, scratched and struggled,till something crashed down upon his head. . . .He came to himself in a police cell, locked up ona charge of assault, seditious cries, and anarchistpropaganda.He looked at me fixedly with his liquid, shiningeyes, that seemed very big in the dim light."That was bad. But even then I might have got offsomehow, perhaps," he said, slowly.I doubt it. But whatever chance he had was doneaway with by a young socialist lawyer who volunteeredto undertake his defence. In vain he assured him thathe was no anarchist; that he was a quiet, respectablemechanic, only too anxious to work ten hours per day athis trade. He was represented at the trial as the victimof society and his drunken shoutings as the expressionof infinite suffering. The young lawyer had his way tomake, and this case was just what he wanted for astart. The speech for the defence was pronouncedmagnificent.The poor fellow paused, swallowed, and brought outthe statement:"I got the maximum penalty applicable to a firstoffence."I made an appropriate murmur. He hung his headand folded his arms."When they let me out of prison," he began, gently,"I made tracks, of course, for my old workshop. Mypatron had a particular liking for me before; but whenhe saw me he turned green with fright and showed methe door with a shaking hand."While he stood in the street, uneasy and discon-certed, he was accosted by a middle-aged man whointroduced himself as an engineer's fitter, too. "I knowwho you are," he said. "I have attended your trial.You are a good comrade and your ideas are sound.But the devil of it is that you won't be able to get workanywhere now. These bourgeois'll conspire to starveyou. That's their way. Expect no mercy from therich."To be spoken to so kindly in the street had com-forted him very much. His seemed to be the sort ofnature needing support and sympathy. The idea ofnot being able to find work had knocked him overcompletely. If his patron, who knew him so well for aquiet, orderly, competent workman, would have noth-ing to do with him now -- then surely nobody else would.That was clear. The police, keeping their eye on him,would hasten to warn every employer inclined to givehim a chance. He felt suddenly very helpless, alarmedand idle; and he followed the middle-aged man to theestaminet round the corner where he met some othergood companions. They assured him that he wouldnot be allowed to starve, work or no work. They haddrinks all round to the discomfiture of all employers oflabour and to the destruction of society.He sat biting his lower lip."That is, monsieur, how I became a compagnon," hesaid. The hand he passed over his forehead wastrembling. "All the same, there's something wrong ina world where a man can get lost for a glass more orless."He never looked up, though I could see he wasgetting excited under his dejection. He slapped thebench with his open palm."No!" he cried. "It was an impossible existence!Watched by the police, watched by the comrades, Idid not belong to myself any more! Why, I could noteven go to draw a few francs from my savings-bankwithout a comrade hanging about the door to see thatI didn't bolt! And most of them were neither morenor less than housebreakers. The intelligent, I mean.They robbed the rich; they were only getting backtheir own, they said. When I had had some drink Ibelieved them. There were also the fools and the mad.Des exaltes -- quoi! When I was drunk I loved them.When I got more drink I was angry with the world.That was the best time. I found refuge from misery inrage. But one can't be always drunk -- n'est-ce pas,monsieur? And when I was sober I was afraid to breakaway. They would have stuck me like a pig."He folded his arms again and raised his sharp chinwith a bitter smile."By and by they told me it was time to go to work.The work was to rob a bank. Afterwards a bombwould be thrown to wreck the place. My beginner'spart would be to keep watch in a street at the back andto take care of a black bag with the bomb inside till itwas wanted. After the meeting at which the affair wasarranged a trusty comrade did not leave me an inch.I had not dared to protest; I was afraid of being doneaway with quietly in that room; only, as we werewalking together I wondered whether it would notbe better for me to throw myself suddenly into theSeine. But while I was turning it over in my mindwe had crossed the bridge, and afterwards I had notthe opportunity."In the light of the candle end, with his sharp features,fluffy little moustache, and oval face, he looked attimes delicately and gaily young, and then appearedquite old, decrepit, full of sorrow, pressing his foldedarms 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 theplot away. As he was keeping watch in the backstreet, bag in hand, he was set upon by the police."These imbeciles," had knocked him down withoutnoticing what he had in his hand. He wondered how thebomb failed to explode as he fell. But it didn't explode."I tried to tell my story in court," he continued."The president was amused. There were in theaudience some idiots who laughed."I expressed the hope that some of his companionshad been caught, too. He shuddered slightly before hetold me that there were two -- Simon, called also Biscuit,the middle-aged fitter who spoke to him in the street,and a fellow of the name of Mafile, one of the sym-pathetic strangers who had applauded his sentimentsand consoled his humanitarian sorrows when he gotdrunk in the cafe."Yes," he went on, with an effort, "I had the ad-vantage of their company over there on St. Joseph'sIsland, amongst some eighty or ninety other convicts.We were all classed as dangerous."St. Joseph's Island is the prettiest of the Iles deSalut. It is rocky and green, with shallow ravines,bushes, thickets, groves of mango-trees, and manyfeathery palms. Six warders armed with revolvers andcarbines are in charge of the convicts kept there.An eight-oared galley keeps up the communicationin the daytime, across a channel a quarter of a milewide, with the Ile Royale, where there is a military post.She makes the first trip at six in the morning. At fourin the afternoon her service is over, and she is thenhauled up into a little dock on the Ile Royale and asentry put over her and a few smaller boats. From thattime till next morning the island of St. Joseph remainscut off from the rest of the world, with the warderspatrolling in turn the path from the warders' house tothe convict huts, and a multitude of sharks patrollingthe waters all round.Under these circumstances the convicts planned amutiny. Such a thing had never been known in thepenitentiary's history before. But their plan was notwithout some possibility of success. The warders wereto be taken by surprise and murdered during the night.Their arms would enable the convicts to shoot downthe people in the galley as she came alongside in themorning. The galley once in their possession, otherboats were to be captured, and the whole company wasto row away up the coast.At dusk the two warders on duty mustered the con-victs as usual. Then they proceeded to inspect thehuts to ascertain that everything was in order. In thesecond they entered they were set upon and absolutelysmothered under the numbers of their assailants. Thetwilight faded rapidly. It was a new moon; and a heavyblack squall gathering over the coast increased the pro-found darkness of the night. The convicts assembled inthe 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 I kill these warders? I had nothingagainst them. But I was afraid of the others. What-ever happened, I could not escape from them. I satalone on the stump of a tree with my head in my hands,sick at heart at the thought of a freedom that could benothing but a mockery to me. Suddenly I was startledto perceive the shape of a man on the path near by.He stood perfectly still, then his form became effaced inthe night. It must have been the chief warder comingto see what had become of his two men. No onenoticed him. The convicts kept on quarrelling overtheir plans. The leaders could not get themselvesobeyed. The fierce whispering of that dark mass ofmen was very horrible."At last they divided into two parties and moved off.When they had passed me I rose, weary and hopeless.The path to the warders' house was dark and silent,but on each side the bushes rustled slightly. PresentlyI saw a faint thread of light before me. The chiefwarder, followed by his three men, was approachingcautiously. But he had failed to close his dark lanternproperly. The convicts had seen that faint gleam, too.There was an awful savage yell, a turmoil on the darkpath, shots fired, blows, groans: and with the sound ofsmashed bushes, the shouts of the pursuers and thescreams of the pursued, the man-hunt, the warder-hunt,passed by me into the interior of the island. I wasalone. And I assure you, monsieur, I was indifferentto everything. After standing still for a while, I walkedon along the path till I kicked something hard. Istooped and picked up a warder's revolver. I felt withmy fingers that it was loaded in five chambers. Inthe gusts of wind I heard the convicts calling to eachother far away, and then a roll of thunder would coverthe soughing and rustling of the trees. Suddenly, a biglight ran across my path very low along the ground.And it showed a woman's skirt with the edge of anapron."I knew that the person who carried it must be thewife of the head warder. They had forgotten all abouther, it seems. A shot rang out in the interior of theisland, and she cried out to herself as she ran. Shepassed on. I followed, and presently I saw her again.She was pulling at the cord of the big bell which hangsat the end of the landing-pier, with one hand, and withthe other she was swinging the heavy lantern to andfro. This is the agreed signal for the Ile Royale shouldassistance be required at night. The wind carried thesound away from our island and the light she swungwas hidden on the shore side by the few trees that grownear the warders' house."I came up quite close to her from behind. Shewent on without stopping, without looking aside, asthough she had been all alone on the island. A bravewoman, monsieur. I put the revolver inside the breastof my blue blouse and waited. A flash of lightning anda clap of thunder destroyed both the sound and thelight of the signal for an instant, but she never faltered,pulling at the cord and swinging the lantern as regularlyas a machine. She was a comely woman of thirty -- nomore. I thought to myself, 'All that's no good on anight like this.' And I made up my mind that if abody of my fellow-convicts came down to the pier --which was sure to happen soon -- I would shoot herthrough the head before I shot myself. I knew the'comrades' well. This idea of mine gave me quite an.interest in life, monsieur; and at once, instead of re-maining stupidly exposed on the pier, I retreated alittle way and crouched behind a bush. I did not in-tend to let myself be pounced upon unawares and beprevented perhaps from rendering a supreme serviceto at least one human creature before I died myself."But we must believe the signal was seen, for thegalley from Ile Royale came over in an astonishinglyshort time. The woman kept right on till the light ofher lantern flashed upon the officer in command andthe bayonets of the soldiers in the boat. Then she satdown and began to cry."She didn't need me any more. I did not budge.Some soldiers were only in their shirt-sleeves, otherswithout boots, just as the call to arms had found them.They passed by my bush at the double. The galley hadbeen sent away for more; and the woman sat all alonecrying at the end of the pier, with the lantern standingon the ground near her."Then suddenly I saw in the light at the end of thepier the red pantaloons of two more men. I was over-come with astonishment. They, too, started off at arun. Their tunics flapped unbuttoned and they werebare-headed. One of them panted out to the other,'Straight on, straight on!'"Where on earth did they spring from, I wondered.Slowly I walked down the short pier. I saw thewoman's form shaken by sobs and heard her moaningmore and more distinctly, 'Oh, my man! my poor man!my poor man!' I stole on quietly. She could neitherhear nor see anything. She had thrown her apron overher head and was rocking herself to and fro in her grief.But I remarked a small boat fastened to the end of thepier."Those two men -- they looked like sous-officiers --must have come in it, after being too late, I suppose, forthe galley. It is incredible that they should have thusbroken the regulations from a sense of duty. And itwas a stupid thing to do. I could not believe my eyesin the very moment I was stepping into that boat."I pulled along the shore slowly. A black cloudhung over the Iles de Salut. I heard firing, shouts.Another hunt had begun -- the convict-hunt. Theoars were too long to pull comfortably. I managedthem with difficulty, though the boat herself was light.But when I got round to the other side of the island thesquall broke in rain and wind. I was unable to makehead against it. I let the boat drift ashore and securedher."I knew the spot. There was a tumbledown oldhovel standing near the water. Cowering in there Iheard through the noises of the wind and the fallingdownpour some people tearing through the bushes.They came out on the strand. Soldiers perhaps. Aflash of lightning threw everything near me into violentrelief. Two convicts!"And directly an amazed voice exclaimed. 'It's amiracle!' It was the voice of Simon, otherwise Biscuit."And another voice growled, 'What's a miracle?'"'Why, there's a boat lying here!'"'You must be mad, Simon! But there is, after all.. . . A boat.'"They seemed awed into complete silence. Theother man was Mafile. He spoke again, cautiously."'It is fastened up. There must be somebody here.'"I spoke to them from within the hovel: 'I am here.'"They came in then, and soon gave me to understandthat the boat was theirs, not mine. 'There are two ofus,' said Mafile, 'against you alone.'"I got out into the open to keep clear of them forfear of getting a treacherous blow on the head. I couldhave shot them both where they stood. But I saidnothing. I kept down the laughter rising in my throat.I made myself very humble and begged to be allowed togo. They consulted in low tones about my fate, whilewith my hand on the revolver in the bosom of my blouseI had their lives in my power. I let them live. Imeant them to pull that boat. I represented to themwith abject humility that I understood the managementof a boat, and that, being three to pull, we could get arest in turns. That decided them at last. It was time.A little more and I would have gone into screaming fitsat the drollness of it."At this point his excitement broke out. He jumpedoff the bench and gesticulated. The great shadows ofhis arms darting over roof and walls made the shedappear too small to contain his agitation."I deny nothing," he burst out. "I was elated,monsieur. I tasted a sort of felicity. But I kept veryquiet. I took my turns at pulling all through thenight. We made for the open sea, putting our trust in apassing ship. It was a foolhardy action. I persuadedthem to it. When the sun rose the immensity of waterwas calm, and the Iles de Salut appeared only like darkspecks from the top of each swell. I was steering then.Mafile, who was pulling bow, let out an oath and said,'We must rest.''The time to laugh had come at last. And I tookmy fill of it, I can tell you. I held my sides and rolledin my seat, they had such startled faces. 'What's gotinto him, the animal?' cries Mafile."And Simon, who was nearest to me, says over hisshoulder to him, 'Devil take me if I don't think he'sgone mad!'"Then I produced the revolver. Aha! In a mo-ment they both got the stoniest eyes you can imagine.Ha, ha! They were frightened. But they pulled.Oh, yes, they pulled all day, sometimes looking wild andsometimes looking faint. I lost nothing of it because Ihad to keep my eyes on them all the time, or else --crack! -- they would have been on top of me in a second.I rested my revolver hand on my knee all ready andsteered with the other. Their faces began to blister.Sky and sea seemed on fire round us and the sea steamedin the sun. The boat made a sizzling sound as she wentthrough the water. Sometimes Mafile foamed at themouth and sometimes he groaned. But he pulled. Hedared not stop. His eyes became blood-shot all over,and he had bitten his lower lip to pieces. Simon was ashoarse as a crow."'Comrade --' he begins.'"There are no comrades here. I am your pa-tron.'"'Patron, then,' he says, 'in the name of humanitylet us rest.'"I let them. There was a little rainwater washingabout the bottom of the boat. I permitted them tosnatch some of it in the hollow of their palms. But as Igave the command, 'En route!' I caught them exchang-ing significant glances. They thought I would have togo to sleep sometime! Aha! But I did not want to goto sleep. I was more awake than ever. It is they whowent to sleep as they pulled, tumbling off the thwartshead over heels suddenly, one after another. I let themlie. All the stars were out. It was a quiet world. Thesun rose. Another day. Allez! En route!"They pulled badly. Their eyes rolled about andtheir tongues hung out. In the middle of the forenoonMafile croaks out: 'Let us make a rush at him, Simon.I would just as soon be shot at once as to die of thirst,hunger, and fatigue at the oar.'"But while he spoke he pulled; and Simon kept onpulling too. It made me smile. Ah! They lovedtheir life these two, in this evil world of theirs, justas I used to love my life, too, before they spoiled itfor me with their phrases. I let them go on to thepoint of exhaustion, and only then I pointed at thesails of a ship on the horizon."Aha! You should have seen them revive andbuckle to their work! For I kept them at it to pullright across that ship's path. They were changed.The sort of pity I had felt for them left me. Theylooked more like themselves every minute. Theylooked at me with the glances I remembered so well.They were happy. They smiled."'Well,' says Simon, 'the energy of that youngsterhas saved our lives. If he hadn't made us, we couldnever have pulled so far out into the track of ships.Comrade, I forgive you. I admire you.'"And Mafile growls from forward: 'We owe you afamous debt of gratitude, comrade. You are cut outfor a chief.'"Comrade! Monsieur! Ah, what a good word!And they, such men as these two, had made it accursed.I looked at them. I remembered their lies, theirpromises, their menaces, and all my days of misery.Why could they not have left me alone after I came outof prison? I looked at them and thought that whilethey lived I could never be free. Never. Neither I norothers like me with warm hearts and weak heads. ForI know I have not a strong head, monsieur. A blackrage came upon me -- the rage of extreme intoxication --but not against the injustice of society. Oh, no!"'I must be free!' I cried, furiously."'Vive la liberte!" yells that ruffian Mafile. 'Mortaux bourgeois who send us to Cayenne! They shallsoon know that we are free.'"The sky, the sea, the whole horizon, seemed to turnred, blood red all round the boat. My temples werebeating so loud that I wondered they did not hear.How is it that they did not? How is it they did notunderstand?"I heard Simon ask, 'Have we not pulled far enoughout now?'"'Yes. Far enough,' I said. I was sorry for him;it was the other I hated. He hauled in his oar with aloud sigh, and as he was raising his hand to wipe hisforehead with the air of a man who has done his work, Ipulled the trigger of my revolver and shot him like thisoff the knee, right through the heart."He tumbled down, with his head hanging over theside of the boat. I did not give him a second glance.The other cried out piercingly. Only one shriek ofhorror. Then all was still."He slipped off the thwart on to his knees and raisedhis clasped hands before his face in an attitude of suppli-cation. 'Mercy,' he whispered, faintly. 'Mercy forme! -- 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 andhis mouth wide open in a great yell of despair. 'Vivel'anarchie! Vive --'"He collapsed all in a heap, with a bullet throughhis head."I flung them both overboard. I threw away therevolver, too. Then I sat down quietly. I was free atlast! At last. I did not even look towards the ship;I did not care; indeed, I think I must have gone tosleep, because all of a sudden there were shouts and Ifound the ship almost on top of me. They hauled meon board and secured the boat astern. They were allblacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto. Healone knew a few words of French. I could not findout where they were going nor who they were. Theygave me something to eat every day; but I did not likethe way they used to discuss me in their language.Perhaps they were deliberating about throwing me over-board in order to keep possession of the boat. How doI know? As we were passing this island I askedwhether it was inhabited. I understood from themulatto that there was a house on it. A farm, Ifancied, they meant. So I asked them to put me ashoreon the beach and keep the boat for their trouble. This,I imagine, was just what they wanted. The rest youknow."After pronouncing these words he lost suddenly allcontrol over himself. He paced to and fro rapidly, tillat last he broke into a run; his arms went like a windmilland his ejaculations became very much like raving.The burden of them was that he "denied nothing,nothing!" I could only let him go on, and sat out of hisway, repeating, "Calmez vous, calmez vous," at intervals,till his agitation exhausted itself.I must confess, too, that I remained there long afterhe had crawled under his mosquito-net. He had en-treated me not to leave him; so, as one sits up with anervous 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 ofan anarchist than he confessed to me or to himself; andthat, the special features of his case apart, he was verymuch like many other anarchists. Warm heart andweak head -- that is the word of the riddle; and it is afact that the bitterest contradictions and the deadliestconflicts of the world are carried on in every individualbreast capable of feeling and passion.From personal inquiry I can vouch that the story ofthe convict mutiny was in every particular as stated byhim.When I got back to Horta from Cayenne and sawthe "Anarchist" again, he did not look well. He wasmore worn, still more frail, and very livid indeed underthe grimy smudges of his calling. Evidently the meatof the company's main herd (in its unconcentratedform) did not agree with him at all.It was on the pontoon in Horta that we met; and Itried to induce him to leave the launch moored whereshe was and follow me to Europe there and then. Itwould have been delightful to think of the excellentmanager's surprise and disgust at the poor fellow'sescape. But he refused with unconquerable obstinacy."Surely you don't mean to live always here!" Icried. 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 hishorseman's gear in the low shed full of tools and scrapsof iron -- the anarchist slave of the Maranon estate,waiting with resignation for that sleep which "fled"from him, as he used to say, in such an unaccountablemanner.[From A Set of Six]
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