65 Short Stories (62 page)

‘By George, it’s fine to be alive,’ said Campion.

He was grubby and unshaved. He took long breaths, and his twisted mouth was half open with a grin. You could tell that he found the air singularly good to breathe. He was delighted with the blue sky and the sunshine and the greenness of the trees. Izzart hated him. He was sure that this morning there was a difference in his manner. He did not know what to do. He had a mind to throw himself on his mercy. He had behaved like a cad, but he was sorry, he would give anything to have the chance again, but anyone might have done what he did, and if Campion gave him away he was ruined. He could never stay in Sembulu; his name would be mud in Borneo and the Straits Settlements. If he made his confession to Campion he could surely get Campion to promise to hold his tongue. But would he keep his promise? He looked at him, a shifty little man: how could he be relied on? Izzart thought of what he had said the night before. It wasn’t the truth, of course, but who could know that? At all events who could prove that he hadn’t honestly thought that Campion was safe? Whatever Campion said, it was only his word against Izzart’s; he could laugh and shrug his shoulders and say that Campion had lost his head and didn’t know what he was talking about. Besides, it wasn’t certain that Campion hadn’t accepted his story; in that frightful struggle for life he could be very sure of nothing. He had a temptation to go back to the subject, but he was afraid if he did that he would excite suspicion in Campion’s mind. He must hold his tongue. That was his only chance of safety. And when they got to K. S. he would get in his story first

‘I should be completely happy now,’ said Campion, ‘if I only had something to smoke.’

We shall be able to get some stinkers on board.’

Campion gave a little laugh.

‘Human beings are very unreasonable,’ he said. ‘At the first moment I was so glad to be alive that I thought of nothing else, but now I’m beginning to regret the loss of my notes and my photographs and my shaving tackle.’

Izzart formulated the thought which had lurked at the back of his mind, but which all through the night he had refused to admit into his consciousness. ‘I wish to God he’d been drowned. Then I’d have been safe.’

‘There she is,’ cried Campion suddenly.

Izzart looked round. They were at the mouth of the river and there was the 
Sultan Ahmed 
waiting for them. Izzart’s heart sank: he had forgotten that she had an English skipper and that he would have to be told the story of their adventure. What would Campion say? The skipper was called Bredon, and Izzart had met him often at Kuala Solor. He was a little bluff man, with a black moustache, and a breezy manner.

‘Hurry up,’ he called out to them, as they rowed up, ‘I’ve been waiting for you since dawn.’ But when they climbed on board his face fell. ‘Hullo, what’s the matter with you?’

‘Give us a drink and you shall hear all about it,’ said Campion, with his crooked grin.

‘Come along.’

They sat down under the awning. On a table were glasses, a bottle of whisky and soda-water. The skipper gave an order and in a few minutes they were noisily under way.

‘We were caught in the Bore,’ said Izzart.

He felt he must say something. His mouth was horribly dry notwithstanding the drink.

‘Were you, by Jove? You’re lucky not to have been drowned. What happened?’ He addressed himself to Izzart because he knew him, but it was Campion who answered. He related the whole incident, accurately, and Izzart listened with strained attention. Campion spoke in the plural when he told the early part of the story, and then, as he came to the moment when they were thrown into the water, changed to the singular. At first it was what they had done and now it was what happened to him. He left Izzart out of it. Izzart did not know whether to be relieved or alarmed. Why did he not mention him? Was it because in that mortal struggle for life he had thought of nothing but himself or-did he 
know?

‘And what happened to you?’ said Captain Bredon, turning to Izzart. Izzart was about to answer when Campion spoke.

‘Until I got over to the other side of the river I thought he was drowned. I don’t know how he got out. I expect he hardly knows himself.’

‘It was touch and go,’ said Izzart with a laugh.

Why had Campion said that? He caught his eye. He was sure now that there was a gleam of amusement in it. It was awful not to be certain. He was frightened. He was ashamed. He wondered if he could not so guide the conversation, either now or later, as to ask Campion whether that was the story he was going to tell in Kuala Solor. There was nothing in it to excite anyone’s suspicions. But if nobody else knew, Campion knew. He could have killed him.

Well, I think you’re both of you damned lucky to be alive,’ said the skipper.

It was but a short run to Kuala Solor, and as they steamed up the Sembulu river Izzart moodily watched the banks. On each side were the mangroves and the nipahs washed by the water, and behind, the dense green of the jungle; here and there, among fruit trees, were Malay houses on piles. Night fell as they docked. Goring, of the police, came on board and shook hands with them. He was living at the rest-house just then, and as he set about his work of seeing the native passengers he told them they would find another man, Porter by name, staying there too. They would all meet at dinner. The boys took charge of their kit, and Campion and Izzart strolled along. They bathed and changed, and at half past eight the four of them assembled in the common-room for gin pahits.

‘I say, what’s this Bredon tells me about your being nearly drowned?’ said Goring as he came in.

Izzart felt himself flush, but before he could answer Campion broke in, and it seemed certain to Izzart that he spoke in order to give the story as he chose. He felt hot with shame. Not a word was spoken in disparagement of him, not a word was said of him at all; he wondered if those two men who listened, Goring and Porter, thought it strange that he should be left out. He looked at Campion intently as he proceeded with his narration; he told it rather humorously; he did not disguise the danger in which they had been, but he made a joke of it, so that the two listeners laughed at the quandary in which they found themselves.

‘A thing that’s tickled me since,’ said Campion, ’is that when I got over to the other bank I was black with mud from head to foot. I felt I really ought to jump in the river and have a wash, but you know I felt I’d been in that damned river as much as ever I wanted, and I said to myself; No, by George, I’ll go dirty. And when I got into the long-house and saw Izzart as black as I was, I knew he’d felt just like I did.’

They laughed and Izzart forced himself to laugh too. He noticed that Campion had told the story in precisely the same words as he had used when he told it to the skipper of the Sultan 
Ahmed. 
There could be only one explanation of that; he knew, he knew everything, and had made up his mind exactly what story to tell. The ingenuity with which Campion gave the facts and yet left out what must be to Izzart’s discredit was devilish. But why was he holding his hand? It wasn’t in him not to feel contempt and resentment for the man who had callously deserted him in that moment of dreadful peril. Suddenly, in a flash of inspiration Izzart understood: he was keeping the truth to tell to Willis, the Resident. Izzart had gooseflesh as he thought of confronting Willis. He could deny, but would his denials serve him? Willis was no fool, and he would get at Hassan; Hassan could not be trusted to be silent; Hassan would give him away. Then he would be done for. Willis would suggest that he had better go home.

He had a racking headache, and after dinner he went to his room, for he wanted to be alone so that he could devise a plan of action. And then a thought came to him which made him go hot and cold: he knew that the secret which he had guarded so long was a secret to nobody. He was on a sudden certain of it. Why should he have those bright eyes and that swarthy skin? Why should he speak Malay with such ease and have learned Dyak so quickly? Of course they knew. What a fool he was ever to think that they believed that story of his, about the Spanish grandmother! They must have laughed up their sleeves when he told it, and behind his back they had called him a damned nigger.

And now another thought came to him, torturing, and he asked himself whether it was on account of that wretched drop of native blood in him that when he heard Campion cry out his nerve failed him. After all, anyone might at that moment have been seized with panic; and why in God’s name should he sacrifice his life to save a man’s whom he cared nothing for? It was insane. But of course in K. S. they would say it was only what they expected; they would make no allowances.

At last he went to bed, but when, after tossing about recklessly for God knows how long, he fell asleep, he was awakened by a fearful dream; he seemed to be once more in that raging torrent, with the boat turning, turning; and then there was the desperate clutching at the gunwale, and the agony as it slipped out of his hands, and the water that roared over him. He was wide awake before dawn. His only chance was to see Willis and get his story in first; and he thought over carefully what he was going to say, and chose the very words he meant to use.

He got up early, and in order not to see Campion went out without breakfast. He walked along the high road till such time as he knew the Resident would be in his office, and then walked back again. He sent in his name and was ushered into Willis’s room. He was a little elderly man with thin grey hair and a long yellow face.

‘I’m glad to see you back safe and sound,’ he said shaking hands with Izzart. ‘What’s this I hear about your being nearly drowned?’

Izzart, in clean ducks, his topee spotless, was a fine figure of a man. His black hair was neatly brushed, and his moustache was trimmed. He had an upright and soldierly bearing.

‘I thought I’d better come and tell you at once, sir, as you told me to look after Campion.’

‘Fire away.’

Izzart told his story. He made light of the danger. He gave Willis to understand that it had not been very great. They would never have been upset if they had not started so late.

‘I tried to get Campion away earlier, but he’d had two or three drinks and the fact is, he didn’t want to move.’

Was he tight?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ smiled Izzart good-humouredly. ‘I shouldn’t say he was cold sober.’

He went on with his story. He managed to insinuate that Campion had lost his head a little. Of course it was a very frightening business to a man who wasn’t a decent swimmer: he, Izzart, had been more concerned for Campion than for himself; he knew the only chance was to keep cool, and the moment they were upset he saw that Campion had got the wind up.

‘You can’t blame him for that,’ said the Resident

‘Of course I did everything I possibly could for him, sir, but the fact is, there wasn’t anything much I could do.’

‘Well, the great thing is that you both escaped. It would have been very awkward for all of us if he’d been drowned.’

‘I thought I’d better come and tell you the facts before you saw Campion, sir. I fancy he’s inclined to talk rather wildly about it. There’s no use exaggerating.’

‘On the whole your stories agree pretty well,’ said Willis, with a little smile. Izzart looked at him blankly.

‘Haven’t you seen Campion this morning? I heard from Goring that there’d been some trouble, and I looked in last night on my way home from the Fort after dinner. You’d already gone to bed.’

Izzart felt himself trembling, and he made a great effort to preserve his composure.

‘By the way, you got away first, didn’t you?’

‘I don’t really know, sir. You see, there was a lot of confusion.’

‘You must have if you got over to the other side before he did.’

‘I suppose I did then.’

‘Well, thanks for coming to tell me,’ said Willis, rising from his chair.

As he did so he knocked some books on the floor. They fell with a sudden thud. The unexpected sound made Izzart start violently, and he gave a gasp. The Resident looked at him quickly.

‘I say, your nerves are in a pretty state.’

Izzart could not control his trembling.

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ he murmured.

‘I expect it’s been a shock. You’d better take it easy for a few days. Why don’t you get the doctor to give you something?’

‘I didn’t sleep very well last night.’

The Resident nodded as though he understood. Izzart left the room, and as he passed out some man he knew stopped and congratulated him on his escape. They all knew of it. He walked back to the rest-house. And as he walked, he repeated to himself the story he had told the Resident. Was it really the same story that Campion had told? He had never suspected that the Resident had already heard it from Campion. What a fool he had been to go to bed! He should never have let Campion out of his sight. Why had the Resident listened without telling him that he already knew? Now Izzart cursed himself for having suggested that Campion was drunk and had lost his head. He had said this in order to discredit him, but he knew now that it was a stupid thing to do. And why had Willis said that about his having got away first? Perhaps he was holding his hand too; perhaps he was going to make inquiries; Willis was very shrewd. But what exactly had Campion said? He must know that; at whatever cost he must know. Izzart’s mind was seething, so that he felt he could hardly keep a hold on his thoughts, but he must keep calm. He felt like a hunted animal. He did not believe that Willis liked him; once or twice in the office he had blamed him because he was careless; perhaps he was just waiting till he got all the facts. Izzart was almost hysterical.