Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard E-Book

Joseph Conrad

• Herausgeber: Youcanprint
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

“He was ruined in every way, but a man possessed of passion is not a bankrupt in life.” One of the greatest novels of the twentieth century, Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo is an immensely exciting tale of love, revolution, and politics set in the mythical South American country of Costaguana during the 1890s. Ten years after his father is murdered by a brutal dictator, Englishman Charles Gould arrives in Costaguana to reopen the family silver mine. But instead of ushering in a shining era of prosperity and progress, the return of the silver engenders a new cycle of violence as Costaguana erupts in civil war, initiated by rival warlords determined to seize the mine and its riches. In desperation, Gould turns to the only man who can save the mine’s treasure Nostromo, the incorruptible head of the local dockworkers, who protects the silver from rebel forces by taking it out to sea. But disaster strikes, burdening Nostromo with a terrible secret that forever alters the fate of everyone involved with the mine. A stunning monument to futility, Nostromo reveals how honor, idealism, and loyalty are inadequate defenses against the inexorable assault of corruption and evil.

Leseprobe

Contents

Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PART FIRST THE SILVER OF THE MINE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

PART SECONDTHE ISABELS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard

Joseph Conrad

First digital edition 2018 by Anna Ruggieri

AUTHOR’S NOTE

“Nostromo” is the most anxiously meditated of the longer novels which belong to the period following upon the publicationof the “Typhoon” volume of short stories.

I don’t mean to say that I became then conscious of any impending change in my mentality and in my attitude towards the tasks of my writing life. And perhaps there was never any change, except in that mysterious, extraneous thing which has nothing to do with the theories of art; a subtle change in the nature of the inspiration; a phenomenon for which I can not in any way be held responsible. What, however, did cause me some concern was that after finishing the laststory of the “Typhoon” volume it seemed somehow that there was nothing more in the world to write about.

This so strangely negative but disturbing mood lasted some little time; and then, as with many of my longer stories, the first hint for “Nostromo” cameto me in the shape of a vagrant anecdote completely destitute of valuable details.

As a matter of fact in 1875 or ‘6, when very young, in the West Indies or rather in the Gulf of Mexico, for my contacts with land were short, few, and fleeting, I heard thestory of some man who was supposed to have stolen single-handed a whole lighter-full of silver, somewhere on the Tierra Firme seaboard during the troubles of a revolution.

On the face of it this was something of a feat. But I heard no details, and havingno particular interest in crime qua crime I was not likely to keep that one in my mind. And I forgot it till twenty-six or seven years afterwards I came upon the very thing in a shabby volume picked up outside a second-hand book-shop. It was the life storyof an American seaman written by himself with the assistance of a journalist. In the course of his wanderings that American sailor worked for some months on board a schooner, the master and owner of which was the thief of whom I had heard in my very youngdays. I have no doubt of that because there could hardly have been two exploits of that peculiar kind in the same part of the world and both connected with a South American revolution.

The fellow had actually managed to steal a lighter with silver, and this, it seems, only because he was implicitly trusted by his employers, who must have been singularly poor judges of character. In the sailor’s story he is represented as an unmitigated rascal, a small cheat, stupidly ferocious, morose, of mean appearance,and altogether unworthy of the greatness this opportunity had thrust upon him. What was interesting was that he would boast of it openly.

He used to say: “People think I make a lot of money in this schooner of mine. But that is nothing. I don’t care for that. Now and then I go away quietly and lift a bar of silver. I must get rich slowly—you understand.”

There was also another curious point about the man. Once in the course of some quarrel the sailor threatened him: “What’s to prevent me reporting ashore what you have told me about that silver?”

The cynical ruffian was not alarmed in the least. He actually laughed. “You fool, if you dare talk like that on shore about me you will get a knife stuck in your back. Every man,woman, and child in that port is my friend. And who’s to prove the lighter wasn’t sunk? I didn’t show you where the silver is hidden. Did I? So you know nothing. And suppose I lied? Eh?”

Ultimately the sailor, disgusted with the sordid meanness of that impenitent thief, deserted from the schooner. The whole episode takes about three pages of his autobiography. Nothing to speak of; but as I looked them over, the curious confirmation of the few casual words heard in my early youth evoked the memories of that distant time when everything was so fresh, so surprising, so venturesome, so interesting; bits of strange coasts under the stars, shadows of hills in the sunshine, men’s passions in the dusk, gossip half-forgotten, faces grown dim. . . . Perhaps, perhaps, there still was in the world something to write about. Yet I did not see anything at first in the mere story. A rascal steals a large parcel of a valuable commodity—so people say. It’s either true or untrue; and in any case it has no value in itself. To invent a circumstantial account of therobbery did not appeal to me, because my talents not running that way I did not think that the game was worth the candle. It was only when it dawned upon me that the purloiner of the treasure need not necessarily be a confirmed rogue, that he could be evena man of character, an actor and possibly a victim in the changing scenes of a revolution, it was only then that I had the first vision of a twilight country which was to become the province of Sulaco, with its high shadowy Sierra and its misty Campo formute witnesses of events flowing from the passions of men short-sighted in good and evil.

Such are in very truth the obscure origins of “Nostromo”—the book. From that moment, I suppose, it had to be. Yet even then I hesitated, as if warned by the instinctof self-preservation from venturing on a distant and toilsome journey into a land full of intrigues and revolutions. But it had to be done.

It took the best part of the years 1903-4 to do; with many intervals of renewed hesitation, lest I should lose myself in the ever-enlarging vistas opening before me as I progressed deeper in my knowledge of the country. Often, also, when I had thought myself to a standstill over the tangled-up affairs of the Republic, I would, figuratively speaking, pack my bag, rush away from Sulaco for a change of air and write a few pages of the “Mirror of the Sea.” But generally, as I’ve said before, my sojourn on the Continent of Latin America, famed for its hospitality, lasted for about two years. On my return I found (speaking somewhat in the style of Captain Gulliver) my family all well, my wife heartily glad to learn that the fuss was all over, and our small boy considerably grown during my absence.

My principal authority for the history of Costaguana is, of course, my veneratedfriend, the late Don Jose Avellanos, Minister to the Courts of England and Spain, etc., etc., in his impartial and eloquent “History of Fifty Years of Misrule.” That work was never published—the reader will discover why—and I am in fact the only person inthe world possessed of its contents. I have mastered them in not a few hours of earnest meditation, and I hope that my accuracy will be trusted. In justice to myself, and to allay the fears of prospective readers, I beg to point out that the few historicalallusions are never dragged in for the sake of parading my unique erudition, but that each of them is closely related to actuality; either throwing a light on the nature of current events or affecting directly the fortunes of the people of whom I speak.

As to their own histories I have tried to set them down, Aristocracy and People, men and women, Latin and Anglo-Saxon, bandit and politician, with as cool a hand as was possible in the heat and clash of my own conflicting emotions. And after all this is also the story of their conflicts. It is for the reader to say how far they are deserving of interest in their actions and in the secret purposes of their hearts revealed in the bitter necessities of the time. I confess that, for me, that time is the time offirm friendships and unforgotten hospitalities. And in my gratitude I must mention here Mrs. Gould, “the first lady of Sulaco,” whom we may safely leave to the secret devotion of Dr. Monygham, and Charles Gould, the Idealist-creator of Material Interestswhom we must leave to his Mine—from which there is no escape in this world.

About Nostromo, the second of the two racially and socially contrasted men, both captured by the silver of the San Tome Mine, I feel bound to say something more.

I did not hesitateto make that central figure an Italian. First of all the thing is perfectly credible: Italians were swarming into the Occidental Province at the time, as anybody who will read further can see; and secondly, there was no one who could stand so well by theside of Giorgio Viola the Garibaldino, the Idealist of the old, humanitarian revolutions. For myself I needed there a Man of the People as free as possible from his class-conventions and all settled modes of thinking. This is not a side snarl at conventions. My reasons were not moral but artistic. Had he been an Anglo-Saxon he would have tried to get into local politics. But Nostromo does not aspire to be a leader in a personal game. He does not want to raise himself above the mass. He is content to feel himself a power—within the People.

But mainly Nostromo is what he is because I received the inspiration for him in my early days from a Mediterranean sailor. Those who have read certain pages of mine will see at once what I mean when I say that Dominic, thepadrone of the Tremolino, might under given circumstances have been a Nostromo. At any rate Dominic would have understood the younger man perfectly—if scornfully. He and I were engaged together in a rather absurd adventure, but the absurdity does not matter. It is a real satisfaction to think that in my very young days there must, after all, have been something in me worthy to command that man’s half-bitter fidelity, his half-ironic devotion. Many of Nostromo’s speeches I have heard first in Dominic’s voice. His hand on the tiller and his fearless eyes roaming the horizon from within the monkish hood shadowing his face, he would utter the usual exordium of his remorseless wisdom: “Vous autres gentilhommes!” in a caustic tone that hangs on my ear yet. Like Nostromo! “Youhombres finos!” Very much like Nostromo. But Dominic the Corsican nursed a certain pride of ancestry from which my Nostromo is free; for Nostromo’s lineage had to be more ancient still. He is a man with the weight of countless generations behind him and no parentage to boast of. . . . Like the People.

In his firm grip on the earth he inherits, in his improvidence and generosity, in his lavishness with his gifts, in his manly vanity, in the obscure sense of his greatness and in his faithful devotion with something despairing as well as desperate in its impulses, he is a Man of the People, their very own unenvious force, disdaining to lead but ruling from within. Years afterwards, grown older as the famous Captain Fidanza, with a stake in the country, going about his many affairs followed by respectful glances in the modernized streets of Sulaco, calling on the widow of the cargador, attending the Lodge, listening in unmoved silence to anarchist speeches at the meeting, the enigmatical patron of the newrevolutionary agitation, the trusted, the wealthy comrade Fidanza with the knowledge of his moral ruin locked up in his breast, he remains essentially a Man of the People. In his mingled love and scorn of life and in the bewildered conviction of having been betrayed, of dying betrayed he hardly knows by what or by whom, he is still of the People, their undoubted Great Man—with a private history of his own.

One more figure of those stirring times I would like to mention: and that is Antonia Avellanos—the “beautiful Antonia.” Whether she is a possible variation of Latin-American girlhood I wouldn’t dare to affirm. But, for me, she is. Always a little in the background by the side of her father (my venerated friend) I hope she has yet relief enough to make intelligible what I am going to say. Of all the people who had seen with me the birth of the Occidental Republic, she is the only one who has kept in my memory the aspect of continued life. Antonia the Aristocrat and Nostromo the Man of the People are the artisans of the New Era, the true creators of the New State; he by his legendary and daring feat, she, like a woman, simply by the force of what she is: the only being capable of inspiring a sincere passion in the heart of a trifler.

If anything couldinduce me to revisit Sulaco (I should hate to see all these changes) it would be Antonia. And the true reason for that—why not be frank about it?—the true reason is that I have modelled her on my first love. How we, a band of tallish schoolboys, the chumsof her two brothers, how we used to look up to that girl just out of the schoolroom herself, as the standard-bearer of a faith to which we all were born but which she alone knew how to hold aloft with an unflinching hope! She had perhaps more glow and lessserenity in her soul than Antonia, but she was an uncompromising Puritan of patriotism with no taint of the slightest worldliness in her thoughts. I was not the only one in love with her; but it was I who had to hear oftenest her scathing criticism of mylevities—very much like poor Decoud—or stand the brunt of her austere, unanswerable invective. She did not quite understand—but never mind. That afternoon when I came in, a shrinking yet defiant sinner, to say the final good-bye I received a hand-squeeze that made my heart leap and saw a tear that took my breath away. She was softened at the last as though she had suddenly perceived (we were such children still!) that I was really going away for good, going very far away—even as far as Sulaco, lying unknown, hidden from our eyes in the darkness of the Placid Gulf.

That’s why I long sometimes for another glimpse of the “beautiful Antonia” (or can it be the Other?) moving in the dimness of the great cathedral, saying a short prayer at the tomb of the first andlast Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco, standing absorbed in filial devotion before the monument of Don Jose Avellanos, and, with a lingering, tender, faithful glance at the medallion-memorial to Martin Decoud, going out serenely into the sunshine of the Plaza with her upright carriage and her white head; a relic of the past disregarded by men awaiting impatiently the Dawns of other New Eras, the coming of more Revolutions.

But this is the idlest of dreams; for I did understand perfectly well at the time thatthe moment the breath left the body of the Magnificent Capataz, the Man of the People, freed at last from the toils of love and wealth, there was nothing more for me to do in Sulaco.

J. C.

October, 1917.

PART FIRST THE SILVER OF THE MINE

CHAPTER ONE

In the time of Spanish rule, and for many years afterwards, thetown of Sulaco—the luxuriant beauty of the orange gardensbears witness to its antiquity—had never been commerciallyanything more important than a coasting port with a fairly largelocal trade in ox-hides and indigo. The clumsy deep-sea galleons ofthe conquerors that, needing a brisk gale to move at all, would liebecalmed, where your modern ship built on clipper lines forgesahead by the mere flapping of her sails, had been barred out ofSulaco by the prevailing calms of its vast gulf. Some harbours ofthe earth are made difficult of access by the treachery of sunkenrocks and the tempests of their shores. Sulaco had found aninviolable sanctuary from the temptations of a trading world in thesolemn hush of the deep Golfo Placido as if within an enormoussemi-circular and unroofed temple open to the ocean, with its wallsof lofty mountains hung with the mourning draperies of cloud.

On one side of this broad curve in the straight seaboard of theRepublic of Costaguana, the last spur of the coast range forms aninsignificant cape whose name is Punta Mala. From the middle of thegulf the point of the land itself is not visible at all; but theshoulder of a steep hill at the back can be made out faintly like ashadow on the sky.

On the other side, what seems to be an isolated patch of bluemist floats lightly on the glare of the horizon. This is thepeninsula of Azuera, a wild chaos of sharp rocks and stony levelscut about by vertical ravines. It lies far out to sea like a roughhead of stone stretched from a green-clad coast at the end of aslender neck of sand covered with thickets of thorny scrub. Utterlywaterless, for the rainfall runs off at once on all sides intothesea, it has not soil enough—it is said—to grow a singleblade of grass, as if it were blighted by a curse. The poor,associating by an obscure instinct of consolation the ideas of eviland wealth, will tell you that it is deadly because of itsforbidden treasures. The common folk of the neighbourhood, peons ofthe estancias, vaqueros of the seaboard plains, tame Indians comingmiles to market with a bundle of sugar-cane or a basket of maizeworth about threepence, are well aware that heaps of shining goldlie in the gloom of the deep precipices cleaving the stony levelsof Azuera. Tradition has it that many adventurers of olden time hadperished in the search. The story goes also that within men’smemory two wandering sailors—Americanos, perhaps, but gringosof some sort for certain—talked over a gambling,good-for-nothing mozo, and the three stole a donkey to carry forthem a bundle of dry sticks, a water-skin, and provisions enough tolast a few days. Thus accompanied, and with revolvers at theirbelts,they had started to chop their way with machetes through thethorny scrub on the neck of the peninsula.

On the second evening an upright spiral of smoke (it could onlyhave been from their camp-fire) was seen for the first time withinmemory of man standing up faintly upon the sky above a razor-backedridge on the stony head. The crew of a coasting schooner, lyingbecalmed three miles off the shore, stared at it with amazementtill dark. A negro fisherman, living in a lonely hut in a littlebay near by, had seen the start and was on the lookout for somesign. He called to his wife just as the sun was about to set. Theyhad watched the strange portent with envy, incredulity, andawe.

The impious adventurers gave no other sign. The sailors, theIndian, and the stolen burro were never seen again. As to the mozo,a Sulaco man—his wife paid for some masses, and the poorfour-footed beast, being without sin, had been probably permittedto die; but the two gringos, spectral and alive, are believed to bedwelling tothis day amongst the rocks, under the fatal spell oftheir success. Their souls cannot tear themselves away from theirbodies mounting guard over the discovered treasure. They are nowrich and hungry and thirsty—a strange theory of tenaciousgringo ghostssuffering in their starved and parched flesh ofdefiant heretics, where a Christian would have renounced and beenreleased.

These, then, are the legendary inhabitants of Azuera guardingits forbidden wealth; and the shadow on the sky on one side withtheround patch of blue haze blurring the bright skirt of thehorizon on the other, mark the two outermost points of the bendwhich bears the name of Golfo Placido, because never a strong windhad been known to blow upon its waters.

On crossing the imaginaryline drawn from Punta Mala to Azuerathe ships from Europe bound to Sulaco lose at once the strongbreezes of the ocean. They become the prey of capricious airs thatplay with them for thirty hours at a stretch sometimes. Before themthe head of the calm gulf is filled on most days of the year by agreat body of motionless and opaque clouds. On the rare clearmornings another shadow is cast upon the sweep of the gulf. Thedawn breaks high behind the towering and serrated wall of theCordillera, a clear-cutvision of dark peaks rearing their steepslopes on a lofty pedestal of forest rising from the very edge ofthe shore. Amongst them the white head of Higuerota risesmajestically upon the blue. Bare clusters of enormous rockssprinkle with tiny black dots the smooth dome of snow.

Then, as the midday sun withdraws from the gulf the shadow ofthe mountains, the clouds begin to roll out of the lower valleys.They swathe in sombre tatters the naked crags of precipices abovethe wooded slopes, hide the peaks, smoke in stormy trails acrossthe snows of Higuerota. The Cordillera is gone from you as if ithad dissolved itself into great piles of grey and black vapoursthat travel out slowly to seaward and vanish into thin air allalong the front before the blazing heat of the day. The wastingedge of the cloud-bank always strives for, but seldom wins, themiddle of the gulf. The sun—as the sailors say—iseating it up. Unless perchance a sombre thunder-head breaks awayfrom the main body to career all over the gulf till it escapes intothe offing beyond Azuera, where it bursts suddenly into flame andcrashes like a sinster pirate-ship of the air, hove-to above thehorizon, engaging the sea.

At night the body of clouds advancing higher up the sky smothersthe whole quietgulf below with an impenetrable darkness, in whichthe sound of the falling showers can be heard beginning and ceasingabruptly—now here, now there. Indeed, these cloudy nights areproverbial with the seamen along the whole west coast of a greatcontinent. Sky, land, and sea disappear together out of the worldwhen the Placido—as the saying is—goes to sleep underits black poncho. The few stars left below the seaward frown of thevault shine feebly as into the mouth of a black cavern. In itsvastness yourship floats unseen under your feet, her sails flutterinvisible above your head. The eye of God Himself—they addwith grim profanity—could not find out what work aman’s hand is doing in there; and youwould be free to callthe devil to your aid with impunity if even his malice were notdefeated by such a blind darkness.

The shores on the gulf are steep-to all round; three uninhabitedislets basking in the sunshine just outside the cloud veil, andopposite the entrance to the harbour of Sulaco, bear the name of“The Isabels.”

There is the Great Isabel; the Little Isabel, which is round;and Hermosa, which is the smallest.

That last is no more than a foot high, and about seven pacesacross, a mere flat top of a grey rock which smokes like a hotcinder after ashower, and where no man would care to venture anaked sole before sunset. On the Little Isabel an old ragged palm,with a thick bulging trunk rough with spines, a very witch amongstpalm trees, rustles a dismal bunch of dead leaves above the coarsesand.The Great Isabel has a spring of fresh water issuing from theovergrown side of a ravine. Resembling an emerald green wedge ofland a mile long, and laid flat upon the sea, it bears two foresttrees standing close together, with a wide spread of shade atthefoot of their smooth trunks. A ravine extending the whole length ofthe island is full of bushes; and presenting a deep tangled clefton the high side spreads itself out on the other into a shallowdepression abutting on a small strip of sandy shore.

From that low end of the Great Isabel the eye plunges through anopening two miles away, as abrupt as if chopped with an axe out ofthe regular sweep of the coast, right into the harbour of Sulaco.It is an oblong, lake-like piece of water. On one side theshortwooded spurs and valleys of the Cordillera come down at rightangles to the very strand; on the other the open view of the greatSulaco plain passes into the opal mystery of great distancesoverhung by dry haze. The town of Sulaco itself—tops ofwalls, a great cupola, gleams of white miradors in a vast grove oforange trees—lies between the mountains and the plain, atsome little distance from its harbour and out of the direct line ofsight from the sea.

CHAPTER TWO

The only sign of commercial activity within the harbour, visiblefrom the beach of the Great Isabel, is the square blunt end of thewooden jetty which the Oceanic Steam Navigation Company (the O.S.N.of familiar speech) had thrown over the shallow part of the baysoon after they had resolved to make of Sulaco one of their portsof call for the Republic of Costaguana. The State possesses severalharbours on its long seaboard, but except Cayta, an importantplace, all are either small and inconvenient inlets in aniron-bound coast—like Esmeralda, for instance, sixty miles tothe south—or else mere open roadsteads exposed to the windsand fretted by the surf.

Perhaps the very atmospheric conditions which had kept away themerchant fleets of bygone ages induced the O.S.N. Company toviolate the sanctuary of peace sheltering the calm existence ofSulaco. The variable airs sporting lightly with the vast semicircleof waters within the head of Azuera could not baffle the steampower of their excellent fleet. Year after year the black hulls oftheir ships had gone up and down the coast, in and out, pastAzuera, past the Isabels, past Punta Mala—disregardingeverything but the tyranny of time. Their names, the names of allmythology, became the household words of a coast that had neverbeen ruled by the gods of Olympus. The Juno was known only for hercomfortable cabins amidships, the Saturn for the geniality of hercaptain and the painted and gilt luxuriousness of her saloon,whereas the Ganymede was fitted out mainly for cattle transport,andto be avoided by coastwise passengers. The humblest Indian inthe obscurest village on the coast was familiar with the Cerberus,a little black puffer without charm or living accommodation tospeak of, whose mission was to creep inshore along the woodedbeaches close to mighty ugly rocks, stopping obligingly beforeevery cluster of huts to collect produce, down to three-poundparcels of indiarubber bound in a wrapper of dry grass.

And as they seldom failed to account for the smallest package,rarely lost abullock, and had never drowned a single passenger, thename of the O.S.N. stood very high for trustworthiness. Peopledeclared that under the Company’s care their lives andproperty were safer on the water than in their own houses onshore.

The O.S.N.‘s superintendent in Sulaco for the wholeCostaguana section of the service was very proud of hisCompany’s standing. He resumed it in a saying which was veryoften on his lips, “We never make mistakes.” To theCompany’s officers it took the form of a severe injunction,“We must make no mistakes. I’ll have no mistakes here,no matter what Smith may do at his end.”

Smith, on whom he had never set eyes in his life, was the othersuperintendent of the service, quartered some fifteen hundred milesaway from Sulaco.“Don’t talk to me of yourSmith.”

Then, calming down suddenly, he would dismiss the subject withstudied negligence.

“Smith knows no more of this continent than ababy.”

“Our excellent Senor Mitchell” for the business andofficial world of Sulaco; “Fussy Joe” for thecommanders of the Company’s ships, Captain Joseph Mitchellprided himself on his profound knowledge of men and things in thecountry—cosas de Costaguana. Amongst these last he accountedas most unfavourable to the orderly working of his Companythefrequent changes of government brought about by revolutions of themilitary type.

The political atmosphere of the Republic was generally stormy inthese days. The fugitive patriots of the defeated party had theknack of turning up again on the coast with half a steamer’sload of small arms and ammunition. Such resourcefulness CaptainMitchell considered as perfectly wonderful in view of their utterdestitution at the time of flight. He had observed that “theynever seemed to have enough change about them to pay for theirpassage ticket out of the country.” And he could speak withknowledge; for on a memorable occasion he had been called upon tosave the life of a dictator, together with the lives of a fewSulaco officials—the political chief, the director of thecustoms, and the head of police—belonging to an overturnedgovernment. Poor Senor Ribiera (such was the dictator’s name)had come pelting eighty miles over mountain tracks after the lostbattle of Socorro, in the hope of out-distancing thefatalnews—which, of course, he could not manage to do on alame mule. The animal, moreover, expired under him at the end ofthe Alameda, where the military band plays sometimes in theevenings between the revolutions. “Sir,” CaptainMitchell would pursue with portentous gravity, “the ill-timedend of that mule attracted attention to the unfortunate rider. Hisfeatures were recognized by several deserters from the Dictatorialarmy amongst the rascally mob already engaged in smashing thewindows of the Intendencia.”

Early on the morning of that day the local authorities of Sulacohad fled for refuge to the O.S.N. Company’s offices, a strongbuilding near the shore end of the jetty, leaving the town to themercies of a revolutionary rabble; and as the Dictator wasexecrated by the populace on account of the severe recruitment lawhis necessities had compelled him to enforce during the struggle,he stood a good chance of being torn to pieces. Providentially,Nostromo—invaluable fellow—with some Italian workmen,imported to work upon the National Central Railway, was at hand,and managed to snatch him away—for the time at least.Ultimately, Captain Mitchell succeeded in taking everybody off inhis own gig to one of the Company’s steamers—it was theMinerva—just then, asluck would have it, entering theharbour.

He had to lower these gentlemen at the end of a rope out of ahole in the wall at the back, while the mob which, pouring out ofthe town, had spread itself all along the shore, howled and foamedat the foot of thebuilding in front. He had to hurry them then thewhole length of the jetty; it had been a desperate dash, neck ornothing—and again it was Nostromo, a fellow in a thousand,who, at the head, this time, of the Company’s body oflightermen, held the jetty against the rushes of the rabble, thusgiving the fugitives time to reach the gig lying ready for them atthe other end with the Company’s flag at the stern. Sticks,stones, shots flew; knives, too, were thrown. Captain Mitchellexhibited willingly the longcicatrice of a cut over his left earand temple, made by a razor-blade fastened to a stick—aweapon, he explained, very much in favour with the “worstkind of nigger out here.”

Captain Mitchell was a thick, elderly man, wearing high, pointedcollars and short side-whiskers, partial to white waistcoats, andreally very communicative under his air of pompous reserve.

“These gentlemen,” he would say, staring with greatsolemnity, “had to run like rabbits, sir. I ran like a rabbitmyself. Certain forms of death are—er—distasteful toa—a—er—respectable man. They would have poundedme to death, too. A crazy mob, sir, does not discriminate. Underprovidence we owed our preservation to my Capataz de Cargadores, asthey called him in the town, a man who, when I discovered hisvalue, sir, was just the bos’n of an Italian ship, a bigGenoese ship, one of the few European ships that ever came toSulaco with a general cargo before the building of the NationalCentral. He left her on account of some very respectable friends hemade here, his own countrymen, but also, I suppose, to betterhimself. Sir, I am a pretty good judge of character. I engaged himto be the foreman of our lightermen, and caretaker of our jetty.That’s all that he was. But without him Senor Ribiera wouldhave been a dead man. This Nostromo, sir, a man absolutely abovereproach, became the terror of all the thieves in the town. We wereinfested, infested, overrun, sir, here at that time by ladrones andmatreros, thieves and murderers from the whole province. On thisoccasion they had been flocking into Sulaco for a week past. Theyhad scented the end, sir. Fifty per cent. of that murdering mobwere professional bandits from the Campo, sir, but therewasn’t one that hadn’t heard of Nostromo. As to thetown leperos, sir, the sight of his black whiskers and white teethwas enough for them. They quailed before him, sir. That’swhat the force of character will do for you.”

It could very well be said that it was Nostromo alone who savedthe lives of thesegentlemen. Captain Mitchell, on his part, neverleft them till he had seen them collapse, panting, terrified, andexasperated, but safe, on the luxuriant velvet sofas in thefirst-class saloon of the Minerva. To the very last he had beencareful to addressthe ex-Dictator as “YourExcellency.”

“Sir, I could do no other. The man was down—ghastly,livid, one mass of scratches.”

The Minerva never let go her anchor that call. Thesuperintendent ordered her out of the harbour at once. No cargocould be landed, of course, and the passengers for Sulaco naturallyrefused to go ashore. They could hear the firing and see plainlythe fight going on at the edge of the water. The repulsed mobdevoted its energies to an attack upon the Custom House, a dreary,unfinished-looking structure with many windows two hundred yardsaway from the O.S.N. Offices, and the only other building near theharbour. Captain Mitchell, after directing the commander of theMinerva to land “these gentlemen” in the first port ofcall outside Costaguana, went back in his gig to see what could bedone for the protection of the Company’s property. That andthe property of the railway were preserved by the Europeanresidents; that is, by Captain Mitchell himself and the staff ofengineers building theroad, aided by the Italian and Basque workmenwho rallied faithfully round their English chiefs. TheCompany’s lightermen, too, natives of the Republic, behavedvery well under their Capataz. An outcast lot of very mixed blood,mainly negroes, everlastingly at feud with the other customers oflow grog shops in the town, they embraced with delight thisopportunity to settle their personal scores under such favourableauspices. There was not one of them that had not, at some time orother, looked with terrorat Nostromo’srevolver poked veryclose at his face, or been otherwise daunted by Nostromo’sresolution. He was “much of a man,” their Capataz was,they said, too scornful in his temper ever to utter abuse, atireless taskmaster, and the more to be fearedbecause of hisaloofness. And behold! there he was that day, at their head,condescending to make jocular remarks to this man or the other.

Such leadership was inspiriting, and in truth all the harm themob managed to achieve was to set fire to one—onlyone—stack of railway-sleepers, which, being creosoted, burnedwell. The main attack on the railway yards, on the O.S.N. Offices,and especially on the Custom House, whose strong room, it was wellknown, contained a large treasure in silver ingots, failedcompletely. Even the little hotel kept by old Giorgio, standingalone halfway between the harbour and the town, escaped looting anddestruction, not by a miracle, but because with the safes in viewthey had neglected it at first, and afterwards found no leisure tostop. Nostromo, with his Cargadores, was pressing them too hardthen.

CHAPTER THREE

It might have been said that there he was only protecting hisown. From the first he had been admitted to live in the intimacy ofthe family of thehotel-keeper who was a countryman of his. OldGiorgio Viola, a Genoese with a shaggy white leoninehead—often called simply “the Garibaldino” (asMohammedans are called after their prophet)—was, to useCaptain Mitchell’s own words, the “respectablemarriedfriend” by whose advice Nostromo had left his ship totry for a run of shore luck in Costaguana.

The old man, full of scorn for the populace, as your austererepublican so often is, had disregarded the preliminary sounds oftrouble. He went on that day asusual pottering about the“casa” in his slippers, muttering angrily to himselfhis contempt of the non-political nature of the riot, and shrugginghis shoulders. In the end he was taken unawares by the out-rush ofthe rabble. It was too late then to remove his family, and, indeed,where could he have run to with the portly Signora Teresa and twolittle girls on that great plain? So, barricading every opening,the old man sat down sternly in the middle of the darkened cafewith an old shot-gun on his knees.His wife sat on another chair byhis side, muttering pious invocations to all the saints of thecalendar.

The old republican did not believe in saints, or in prayers, orin what he called “priest’s religion.” Libertyand Garibaldi were his divinities; buthe tolerated“superstition” in women, preserving in these matters alofty and silent attitude.

His two girls, the eldest fourteen, and the other two yearsyounger, crouched on the sanded floor, on each side of the SignoraTeresa, with their heads on theirmother’s lap, both scared,but each in her own way, the dark-haired Linda indignant and angry,the fair Giselle, the younger, bewildered and resigned. The Patronaremoved her arms, which embraced her daughters, for a moment tocross herself and wring herhands hurriedly. She moaned a littlelouder.

“Oh! Gian’ Battista, why art thou not here? Oh! whyart thou not here?”

She was not then invoking the saint himself, but calling uponNostromo, whose patron he was. And Giorgio, motionless on the chairby her side, would be provoked by these reproachful and distractedappeals.

“Peace, woman! Where’s the sense of it?There’s his duty,” he murmured in the dark; and shewould retort, panting—

“Eh! I have no patience. Duty! What of the woman who hasbeen like a mother to him? I bent my knee to him this morning;don’t you go out, Gian’ Battista—stop in thehouse, Battistino—look at those two little innocentchildren!”

Mrs. Viola was an Italian, too, a native of Spezzia, and thoughconsiderably younger than her husband,already middle-aged. She hada handsome face, whose complexion had turned yellow because theclimate of Sulaco did not suit her at all. Her voice was a richcontralto. When, with her arms folded tight under her ample bosom,she scolded the squat, thick-legged China girls handling linen,plucking fowls, pounding corn in wooden mortars amongst the mudoutbuildings at the back of the house, she could bring out suchanimpassioned, vibrating, sepulchral note that the chainedwatch-dog bolted into his kennel with a great rattle. Luis, acinnamon-coloured mulatto with a sprouting moustache and thick,dark lips, would stop sweeping the cafe with a broom of palm-leavesto let a gentle shudder run down his spine. His languishing almondeyes would remain closed for along time.

This was the staff of the Casa Viola, but all these people hadfled early that morning at the first sounds of the riot, preferringto hide on the plain rather than trust themselves in the house; apreference for which they were in no way to blame, since, whethertrue or not, it was generally believed in the town that theGaribaldino had some money buried under the clay floor of thekitchen. The dog, an irritable, shaggy brute, barked violently andwhined plaintively in turns at the back, runningin and out of hiskennel as rage or fear prompted him.

Bursts of great shouting rose and died away, like wild gusts ofwind on the plain round the barricaded house; the fitful popping ofshots grew louder above the yelling. Sometimes there wereintervalsof unaccountable stillness outside, and nothing could havebeen more gaily peaceful than the narrow bright lines of sunlightfrom the cracks in the shutters, ruled straight across the cafeover the disarranged chairs and tables to the wall opposite. OldGiorgio had chosen that bare, whitewashed room for a retreat. Ithad only one window, and its only door swung out upon the track ofthick dust fenced by aloe hedges between the harbour and the town,where clumsy carts used to creak along behind slow yokes ofoxenguided by boys on horseback.

In a pause of stillness Giorgio cocked his gun. The ominoussound wrung a low moan from the rigid figure of the woman sittingby his side. A sudden outbreak of defiant yelling quite near thehouse sank all at once to a confused murmur of growls. Somebody ranalong; the loud catching of his breath was heard for an instantpassing the door; there were hoarse mutters and footsteps near thewall; a shoulder rubbed against the shutter, effacing the brightlines of sunshine pencilled across the whole breadth of the room.Signora Teresa’s arms thrown about the kneeling forms of herdaughters embraced them closer with a convulsive pressure.

The mob, driven away from the Custom House, had broken up intoseveral bands, retreating across the plain in the direction of thetown. The subdued crash of irregular volleys fired in the distancewas answered by faint yells far away. In the intervals the singleshots rang feebly, and the low, long, white building blinded inevery window seemed to be the centre of a turmoil widening in agreat circle about its closed-up silence. But the cautiousmovements and whispers of a routed party seeking a momentaryshelter behind the wall made the darkness of the room, striped bythreads of quiet sunlight,alight with evil, stealthy sounds. TheViolas had them in their ears as though invisible ghosts hoveringabout their chairs had consulted in mutters as to the advisabilityof setting fire to this foreigner’s casa.

It was trying to the nerves. Old Viola hadrisen slowly, gun inhand, irresolute, for he did not see how he could prevent them.Already voices could be heard talking at the back. Signora Teresawas beside herself with terror.

“Ah! the traitor! the traitor!” she mumbled, almostinaudibly. “Now we are going to be burnt; and I bent my kneeto him. No! he must run at the heels of his English.”

She seemed to think that Nostromo’s mere presence in thehouse would have made it perfectly safe. So far, she, too, wasunder the spell of that reputation the Capataz de Cargadores hadmade for himself by the waterside, along the railway line, with theEnglish and with the populace of Sulaco. To his face, and evenagainst her husband, she invariably affected to laugh it to scorn,sometimes good-naturedly, more often with a curious bitterness. Butthen women are unreasonable in their opinions, as Giorgio used toremark calmly on fitting occasions. On this occasion, with his gunheld at ready before him, he stooped down to his wife’s head,and, keeping his eyes steadfastly on the barricaded door, hebreathed out into her ear that Nostromo would have been powerlessto help. What could two men shut up in a house do against twenty ormore bent upon setting fire to the roof? Gian’ Battista wasthinking of the casa all thetime, he was sure.

“He think of the casa! He!” gasped Signora Viola,crazily. She struck her breast with her open hands. “I knowhim. He thinks of nobody but himself.”

A discharge of firearms near by made her throw her head back andclose her eyes. Old Giorgio set his teeth hard under his whitemoustache, and his eyes began to roll fiercely. Several bulletsstruck the end of the wall together; pieces of plaster could beheard falling outside; a voice screamed “Here theycome!” and after a moment of uneasysilence there was a rushof running feet along the front.

Then the tension of old Giorgio’s attitude relaxed, and asmile of contemptuous relief came upon his lips of an old fighterwith a leonine face. These were not a people striving for justice,but thieves. Even to defend his life against them was a sort ofdegradation for a man who had been one of Garibaldi’simmortal thousand in the conquest of Sicily. He had an immensescorn for this outbreak of scoundrels and leperos, who did not knowthe meaning ofthe word “liberty.”

He grounded his old gun, and, turning his head, glanced at thecoloured lithograph of Garibaldi in a black frame on the whitewall; a thread of strong sunshine cut it perpendicularly. His eyes,accustomed to the luminous twilight, madeout the high colouring ofthe face, the red of the shirt, the outlines of the squareshoulders, the black patch of the Bersagliere hat with cock’sfeathers curling over the crown. An immortal hero! This was yourliberty; it gave you not only life, but immortality as well!

For that one man his fanaticism had suffered no diminution. Inthe moment of relief from the apprehension of the greatest danger,perhaps, his family had been exposed to in all their wanderings, hehad turned to the picture of his old chief, first and only, thenlaid his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

The children kneeling on the floor had not moved. Signora Teresaopened her eyes a little, as though he had awakened her from a verydeep and dreamless slumber. Before he had time in his deliberateway to say a reassuring word she jumped up, with the childrenclinging to her, one on each side, gasped for breath, and let out ahoarse shriek.

It was simultaneous with the bang of a violent blow struck onthe outside of the shutter. They could hearsuddenly the snorting ofa horse, the restive tramping of hoofs on thenarrow, hard path infront of the house; the toe of a boot struck at the shutter again;a spur jingled at every blow, and an excited voice shouted,“Hola! hola, in there!”

CHAPTER FOUR

All the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the CasaViola, even in the thick of the hottest scrimmage near the CustomHouse. “If I see smoke rising over there,” he thoughtto himself, “they are lost.” Directly the mob hadbroken hepressed with a small band of Italian workmen in thatdirection, which, indeed, was the shortest line towards the town.That part of the rabble he was pursuing seemed to think of making astand under the house; a volley fired by his followers from behindan aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out for therails of the harbour branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on hissilver-grey mare. He shouted, sent after them one shot from hisrevolver, and galloped up to the cafe window. He had an ideathatold Giorgio would choose that part of the house for a refuge.

His voice had penetrated to them, sounding breathlessly hurried:“Hola! Vecchio! O, Vecchio! Is it all well with you inthere?”

“You see—” murmured old Viola to his wife.Signora Teresa wassilent now. Outside Nostromo laughed.

“I can hear the padrona is not dead.”

“You have done your best to kill me with fear,”cried Signora Teresa. She wanted to say something more, but hervoice failed her.

Linda raised her eyes to her face for a moment, but old Giorgioshouted apologetically—

“She is a little upset.”

Outside Nostromo shouted back with another laugh—

“She cannot upset me.”

Signora Teresa found her voice.

“It is what I say. You have no heart—and you have noconscience, Gian’ Battista—”

Theyheard him wheel his horse away from the shutters. The partyhe led were babbling excitedly in Italian and Spanish, incitingeach other to the pursuit. He put himself at their head, crying,“Avanti!”