“I’ll not forget that in a hurry.... Blath, you say his name was?”

Bellair knew well that he had not kept his mental pictures from Fleury’s mind. His entire consciousness had been in steam and woodsmoke having to do with broiling meat. The three were worn thin, worn to fine receptivity, and caught one-another’s thought without effort of many words.... Though he did not turn, a shock of pity came to him now for the master. He had meant to save the opening of the whiskey for the next dawn, vaguely thinking that if they should find the sea empty once more, there would be that false strength to fall back upon. Stackhouse could not live more than a day or two longer. He was torn by devils, his only surcease being the snap of consciousness from time to time. The whiskey had been upon Bellair’s mind like a curse. He wanted its force for himself, but never really meant to use it, had not even given the temptation leeway. His lot was cast with the forward forces; they would not have touched the contents of his bottle. This did not change the desire, however.

4

The third day. Bellair was light-headed from the scarcity of crackers. Yesterday had been a mingled thirst and hunger day, but this was characterised by hunger incessant. To-morrow he anticipated with dread another thirst horror, and after that, no hunger at all, but mighty agony that knew but the one word, Water. The keen airs of night and morning, and the sterilised burning of the noons, constantly fanned and stimulated the natural demands of the body.... He had [Pg 127]forgotten the newspapers. Bessie’s face came before him—something of her deep heart-touching tones which changed him.

“There must be a great woman there—a great fine woman—like this one.”

He did not turn. It may have been the first concession from his every-day faculties of this woman’s actual beauty. He had already granted this deeper within, where the understandings of men are wiser, but harder to get at. Certain hours had shown him the clear quality of saints and martyrs; and he had seen in pure life-equation that the child was worth his life or Fleury’s. He would have given his, as most white men would, but it was different to see the value and rightness of it....

There was now an unspeakable need in the stern. He drew the bottle from the overcoat-pocket at his feet, without turning. Fleury and the woman watched him. He cut the small wires with his knife, tore off the wafer, half-expectant of some sound from behind.... The day was ending. The young moon newly visible in the dusk began its curve into the west from a higher point in the sky....

There was a screw in Bellair’s knife. It sank noiselessly into the cork, but the first creak of the stopper against the glass brought the jolt. They all felt it—as if the great body had fallen from a dream.

Stackhouse was staring at the thing in Bellair’s hands, his tongue visible, his face filling with light. He rubbed his eyes, the beginnings of articulation deep in his throat. He was trying to make himself believe it was not a vision. That harrowed them. A pirate would have pitied him—reptile desire imaged not in the face alone, but in the hands and all. Bellair poured a big drink in a tin-cup. Fleury passed him a gill of water. Stackhouse drained the cup with a cry.

Something earth-bound slowly left his face. In contrast it grew mild and reckonable; but within an hour he was wild with pain, and dangerous for night was falling. In the light of the moon there was treachery. Bellair and Fleury sat together in the centre. The other’s bulk was great and the boat small. In becoming custodian of a bottle of whiskey, Bellair now required help. He wished it in the sea, but there was a pang of cruelty about that. The new force that animated Stackhouse had to be reckoned with. It was both cunning and destructive. There was no murder in their hearts.... Stackhouse drew his feet under him, helping them with his hands; his eyeballs turned upward from the agony of cramps in his limbs; then he sank forward on his knees. The craft of desire had turned from fighting to speech. The moon was grey upon his breast and gleamed from his eyes.