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<h2> CHAPTER 45 </h2>
<p>'When Tamb' Itam, paddling madly, came into the town-reach, the women,
thronging the platforms before the houses, were looking out for the return
of Dain Waris's little fleet of boats. The town had a festive air; here
and there men, still with spears or guns in their hands, could be seen
moving or standing on the shore in groups. Chinamen's shops had been
opened early; but the market-place was empty, and a sentry, still posted
at the corner of the fort, made out Tamb' Itam, and shouted to those
within. The gate was wide open. Tamb' Itam jumped ashore and ran in
headlong. The first person he met was the girl coming down from the house.</p>
<p>'Tamb' Itam, disordered, panting, with trembling lips and wild eyes, stood
for a time before her as if a sudden spell had been laid on him. Then he
broke out very quickly: "They have killed Dain Waris and many more." She
clapped her hands, and her first words were, "Shut the gates." Most of the
fortmen had gone back to their houses, but Tamb' Itam hurried on the few
who remained for their turn of duty within. The girl stood in the middle
of the courtyard while the others ran about. "Doramin," she cried
despairingly, as Tamb' Itam passed her. Next time he went by he answered
her thought rapidly, "Yes. But we have all the powder in Patusan." She
caught him by the arm, and, pointing at the house, "Call him out," she
whispered, trembling.</p>
<p>'Tamb' Itam ran up the steps. His master was sleeping. "It is I, Tamb'
Itam," he cried at the door, "with tidings that cannot wait." He saw Jim
turn over on the pillow and open his eyes, and he burst out at once.
"This, Tuan, is a day of evil, an accursed day." His master raised himself
on his elbow to listen—just as Dain Waris had done. And then Tamb'
Itam began his tale, trying to relate the story in order, calling Dain
Waris Panglima, and saying: "The Panglima then called out to the chief of
his own boatmen, 'Give Tamb' Itam something to eat'"—when his master
put his feet to the ground and looked at him with such a discomposed face
that the words remained in his throat.</p>
<p>'"Speak out," said Jim. "Is he dead?" "May you live long," cried Tamb'
Itam. "It was a most cruel treachery. He ran out at the first shots and
fell." . . . His master walked to the window and with his fist struck at
the shutter. The room was made light; and then in a steady voice, but
speaking fast, he began to give him orders to assemble a fleet of boats
for immediate pursuit, go to this man, to the other—send messengers;
and as he talked he sat down on the bed, stooping to lace his boots
hurriedly, and suddenly looked up. "Why do you stand here?" he asked very
red-faced. "Waste no time." Tamb' Itam did not move. "Forgive me, Tuan,
but . . . but," he began to stammer. "What?" cried his master aloud,
looking terrible, leaning forward with his hands gripping the edge of the
bed. "It is not safe for thy servant to go out amongst the people," said
Tamb' Itam, after hesitating a moment.</p>
<p>'Then Jim understood. He had retreated from one world, for a small matter
of an impulsive jump, and now the other, the work of his own hands, had
fallen in ruins upon his head. It was not safe for his servant to go out
amongst his own people! I believe that in that very moment he had decided
to defy the disaster in the only way it occurred to him such a disaster
could be defied; but all I know is that, without a word, he came out of
his room and sat before the long table, at the head of which he was
accustomed to regulate the affairs of his world, proclaiming daily the
truth that surely lived in his heart. The dark powers should not rob him
twice of his peace. He sat like a stone figure. Tamb' Itam, deferential,
hinted at preparations for defence. The girl he loved came in and spoke to
him, but he made a sign with his hand, and she was awed by the dumb appeal
for silence in it. She went out on the verandah and sat on the threshold,
as if to guard him with her body from dangers outside.</p>
<p>'What thoughts passed through his head—what memories? Who can tell?
Everything was gone, and he who had been once unfaithful to his trust had
lost again all men's confidence. It was then, I believe, he tried to write—to
somebody—and gave it up. Loneliness was closing on him. People had
trusted him with their lives—only for that; and yet they could
never, as he had said, never be made to understand him. Those without did
not hear him make a sound. Later, towards the evening, he came to the door
and called for Tamb' Itam. "Well?" he asked. "There is much weeping. Much
anger too," said Tamb' Itam. Jim looked up at him. "You know," he
murmured. "Yes, Tuan," said Tamb' Itam. "Thy servant does know, and the
gates are closed. We shall have to fight." "Fight! What for?" he asked.
"For our lives." "I have no life," he said. Tamb' Itam heard a cry from
the girl at the door. "Who knows?" said Tamb' Itam. "By audacity and
cunning we may even escape. There is much fear in men's hearts too." He
went out, thinking vaguely of boats and of open sea, leaving Jim and the
girl together.</p>
<p>'I haven't the heart to set down here such glimpses as she had given me of
the hour or more she passed in there wrestling with him for the possession
of her happiness. Whether he had any hope—what he expected, what he
imagined—it is impossible to say. He was inflexible, and with the
growing loneliness of his obstinacy his spirit seemed to rise above the
ruins of his existence. She cried "Fight!" into his ear. She could not
understand. There was nothing to fight for. He was going to prove his
power in another way and conquer the fatal destiny itself. He came out
into the courtyard, and behind him, with streaming hair, wild of face,
breathless, she staggered out and leaned on the side of the doorway. "Open
the gates," he ordered. Afterwards, turning to those of his men who were
inside, he gave them leave to depart to their homes. "For how long, Tuan?"
asked one of them timidly. "For all life," he said, in a sombre tone.</p>
<p>'A hush had fallen upon the town after the outburst of wailing and
lamentation that had swept over the river, like a gust of wind from the
opened abode of sorrow. But rumours flew in whispers, filling the hearts
with consternation and horrible doubts. The robbers were coming back,
bringing many others with them, in a great ship, and there would be no
refuge in the land for any one. A sense of utter insecurity as during an
earthquake pervaded the minds of men, who whispered their suspicions,
looking at each other as if in the presence of some awful portent.</p>
<p>'The sun was sinking towards the forests when Dain Waris's body was
brought into Doramin's campong. Four men carried it in, covered decently
with a white sheet which the old mother had sent out down to the gate to
meet her son on his return. They laid him at Doramin's feet, and the old
man sat still for a long time, one hand on each knee, looking down. The
fronds of palms swayed gently, and the foliage of fruit trees stirred
above his head. Every single man of his people was there, fully armed,
when the old nakhoda at last raised his eyes. He moved them slowly over
the crowd, as if seeking for a missing face. Again his chin sank on his
breast. The whispers of many men mingled with the slight rustling of the
leaves.</p>
<p>'The Malay who had brought Tamb' Itam and the girl to Samarang was there
too. "Not so angry as many," he said to me, but struck with a great awe
and wonder at the "suddenness of men's fate, which hangs over their heads
like a cloud charged with thunder." He told me that when Dain Waris's body
was uncovered at a sign of Doramin's, he whom they often called the white
lord's friend was disclosed lying unchanged with his eyelids a little open
as if about to wake. Doramin leaned forward a little more, like one
looking for something fallen on the ground. His eyes searched the body
from its feet to its head, for the wound maybe. It was in the forehead and
small; and there was no word spoken while one of the by-standers,
stooping, took off the silver ring from the cold stiff hand. In silence he
held it up before Doramin. A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the
crowd at the sight of that familiar token. The old nakhoda stared at it,
and suddenly let out one great fierce cry, deep from the chest, a roar of
pain and fury, as mighty as the bellow of a wounded bull, bringing great
fear into men's hearts, by the magnitude of his anger and his sorrow that
could be plainly discerned without words. There was a great stillness
afterwards for a space, while the body was being borne aside by four men.
They laid it down under a tree, and on the instant, with one long shriek,
all the women of the household began to wail together; they mourned with
shrill cries; the sun was setting, and in the intervals of screamed
lamentations the high sing-song voices of two old men intoning the Koran
chanted alone.</p>
<p>'About this time Jim, leaning on a gun-carriage, looked at the river, and
turned his back on the house; and the girl, in the doorway, panting as if
she had run herself to a standstill, was looking at him across the yard.
Tamb' Itam stood not far from his master, waiting patiently for what might
happen. All at once Jim, who seemed to be lost in quiet thought, turned to
him and said, "Time to finish this."</p>
<p>'"Tuan?" said Tamb' Itam, advancing with alacrity. He did not know what
his master meant, but as soon as Jim made a movement the girl started too
and walked down into the open space. It seems that no one else of the
people of the house was in sight. She tottered slightly, and about
half-way down called out to Jim, who had apparently resumed his peaceful
contemplation of the river. He turned round, setting his back against the
gun. "Will you fight?" she cried. "There is nothing to fight for," he
said; "nothing is lost." Saying this he made a step towards her. "Will you
fly?" she cried again. "There is no escape," he said, stopping short, and
she stood still also, silent, devouring him with her eyes. "And you shall
go?" she said slowly. He bent his head. "Ah!" she exclaimed, peering at
him as it were, "you are mad or false. Do you remember the night I prayed
you to leave me, and you said that you could not? That it was impossible!
Impossible! Do you remember you said you would never leave me? Why? I
asked you for no promise. You promised unasked—remember." "Enough,
poor girl," he said. "I should not be worth having."</p>
<p>'Tamb' Itam said that while they were talking she would laugh loud and
senselessly like one under the visitation of God. His master put his hands
to his head. He was fully dressed as for every day, but without a hat. She
stopped laughing suddenly. "For the last time," she cried menacingly,
"will you defend yourself?" "Nothing can touch me," he said in a last
flicker of superb egoism. Tamb' Itam saw her lean forward where she stood,
open her arms, and run at him swiftly. She flung herself upon his breast
and clasped him round the neck.</p>
<p>'"Ah! but I shall hold thee thus," she cried. . . . "Thou art mine!"</p>
<p>'She sobbed on his shoulder. The sky over Patusan was blood-red, immense,
streaming like an open vein. An enormous sun nestled crimson amongst the
tree-tops, and the forest below had a black and forbidding face.</p>
<p>'Tamb' Itam tells me that on that evening the aspect of the heavens was
angry and frightful. I may well believe it, for I know that on that very
day a cyclone passed within sixty miles of the coast, though there was
hardly more than a languid stir of air in the place.</p>
<p>'Suddenly Tamb' Itam saw Jim catch her arms, trying to unclasp her hands.
She hung on them with her head fallen back; her hair touched the ground.
"Come here!" his master called, and Tamb' Itam helped to ease her down. It
was difficult to separate her fingers. Jim, bending over her, looked
earnestly upon her face, and all at once ran to the landing-stage. Tamb'
Itam followed him, but turning his head, he saw that she had struggled up
to her feet. She ran after them a few steps, then fell down heavily on her
knees. "Tuan! Tuan!" called Tamb' Itam, "look back;" but Jim was already
in a canoe, standing up paddle in hand. He did not look back. Tamb' Itam
had just time to scramble in after him when the canoe floated clear. The
girl was then on her knees, with clasped hands, at the water-gate. She
remained thus for a time in a supplicating attitude before she sprang up.
"You are false!" she screamed out after Jim. "Forgive me," he cried.
"Never! Never!" she called back.</p>
<p>'Tamb' Itam took the paddle from Jim's hands, it being unseemly that he
should sit while his lord paddled. When they reached the other shore his
master forbade him to come any farther; but Tamb' Itam did follow him at a
distance, walking up the slope to Doramin's campong.</p>
<p>'It was beginning to grow dark. Torches twinkled here and there. Those
they met seemed awestruck, and stood aside hastily to let Jim pass. The
wailing of women came from above. The courtyard was full of armed Bugis
with their followers, and of Patusan people.</p>
<p>'I do not know what this gathering really meant. Were these preparations
for war, or for vengeance, or to repulse a threatened invasion? Many days
elapsed before the people had ceased to look out, quaking, for the return
of the white men with long beards and in rags, whose exact relation to
their own white man they could never understand. Even for those simple
minds poor Jim remains under a cloud.</p>
<p>'Doramin, alone! immense and desolate, sat in his arm-chair with the pair
of flintlock pistols on his knees, faced by a armed throng. When Jim
appeared, at somebody's exclamation, all the heads turned round together,
and then the mass opened right and left, and he walked up a lane of
averted glances. Whispers followed him; murmurs: "He has worked all the
evil." "He hath a charm." . . . He heard them—perhaps!</p>
<p>'When he came up into the light of torches the wailing of the women ceased
suddenly. Doramin did not lift his head, and Jim stood silent before him
for a time. Then he looked to the left, and moved in that direction with
measured steps. Dain Waris's mother crouched at the head of the body, and
the grey dishevelled hair concealed her face. Jim came up slowly, looked
at his dead friend, lifting the sheet, than dropped it without a word.
Slowly he walked back.</p>
<p>'"He came! He came!" was running from lip to lip, making a murmur to which
he moved. "He hath taken it upon his own head," a voice said aloud. He
heard this and turned to the crowd. "Yes. Upon my head." A few people
recoiled. Jim waited awhile before Doramin, and then said gently, "I am
come in sorrow." He waited again. "I am come ready and unarmed," he
repeated.</p>
<p>'The unwieldy old man, lowering his big forehead like an ox under a yoke,
made an effort to rise, clutching at the flintlock pistols on his knees.
From his throat came gurgling, choking, inhuman sounds, and his two
attendants helped him from behind. People remarked that the ring which he
had dropped on his lap fell and rolled against the foot of the white man,
and that poor Jim glanced down at the talisman that had opened for him the
door of fame, love, and success within the wall of forests fringed with
white foam, within the coast that under the western sun looks like the
very stronghold of the night. Doramin, struggling to keep his feet, made
with his two supporters a swaying, tottering group; his little eyes stared
with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with a ferocious glitter, which
the bystanders noticed; and then, while Jim stood stiffened and with bared
head in the light of torches, looking him straight in the face, he clung
heavily with his left arm round the neck of a bowed youth, and lifting
deliberately his right, shot his son's friend through the chest.</p>
<p>'The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had
raised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot. They say that
the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and
unflinching glance. Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward,
dead.</p>
<p>'And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart,
forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic. Not in the wildest days
of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an
extraordinary success! For it may very well be that in the short moment of
his last proud and unflinching glance, he had beheld the face of that
opportunity which, like an Eastern bride, had come veiled to his side.</p>
<p>'But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself out of
the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted egoism.
He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a
shadowy ideal of conduct. Is he satisfied—quite, now, I wonder? We
ought to know. He is one of us—and have I not stood up once, like an
evoked ghost, to answer for his eternal constancy? Was I so very wrong
after all? Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of his
existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force; and yet
upon my honour there are moments, too when he passes from my eyes like a
disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this earth, ready to
surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own world of shades.</p>
<p>'Who knows? He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl is leading
a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house. Stein has aged greatly
of late. He feels it himself, and says often that he is "preparing to
leave all this; preparing to leave . . ." while he waves his hand sadly at
his butterflies.'</p>
<p>September 1899—July 1900.</p>
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