The Rescue | Page 9

the lot, only one or two wore sarongs, the others having
submitted--at least at sea--to the indignity of European trousers. Only
two sat on the spars. One, a man with a childlike, light yellow face,

smiling with fatuous imbecility under the wisps of straight coarse hair
dyed a mahogany tint, was the tindal of the crew--a kind of boatswain's
or serang's mate. The other, sitting beside him on the booms, was a man
nearly black, not much bigger than a large ape, and wearing on his
wrinkled face that look of comical truculence which is often
characteristic of men from the southwestern coast of Sumatra.
This was the kassab or store-keeper, the holder of a position of dignity
and ease. The kassab was the only one of the crew taking their evening
meal who noticed the presence on deck of their commander. He
muttered something to the tindal who directly cocked his old hat on one
side, which senseless action invested him with an altogether foolish
appearance. The others heard, but went on somnolently feeding with
spidery movements of their lean arms.
The sun was no more than a degree or so above the horizon, and from
the heated surface of the waters a slight low mist began to rise; a mist
thin, invisible to the human eye; yet strong enough to change the sun
into a mere glowing red disc, a disc vertical and hot, rolling down to
the edge of the horizontal and cold-looking disc of the shining sea.
Then the edges touched and the circular expanse of water took on
suddenly a tint, sombre, like a frown; deep, like the brooding
meditation of evil.
The falling sun seemed to be arrested for a moment in his descent by
the sleeping waters, while from it, to the motionless brig, shot out on
the polished and dark surface of the sea a track of light, straight and
shining, resplendent and direct; a path of gold and crimson and purple,
a path that seemed to lead dazzling and terrible from the earth straight
into heaven through the portals of a glorious death. It faded slowly. The
sea vanquished the light. At last only a vestige of the sun remained, far
off, like a red spark floating on the water. It lingered, and all at
once--without warning--went out as if extinguished by a treacherous
hand.
"Gone," cried Lingard, who had watched intently yet missed the last
moment. "Gone! Look at the cabin clock, Shaw!"

"Nearly right, I think, sir. Three minutes past six."
The helmsman struck four bells sharply. Another barefooted seacannie
glided on the far side of the poop to relieve the wheel, and the serang of
the brig came up the ladder to take charge of the deck from Shaw. He
came up to the compass, and stood waiting silently.
"The course is south by east when you get the wind, serang," said Shaw,
distinctly.
"Sou' by eas'," repeated the elderly Malay with grave earnestness.
"Let me know when she begins to steer," added Lingard.
"Ya, Tuan," answered the man, glancing rapidly at the sky. "Wind
coming," he muttered.
"I think so, too," whispered Lingard as if to himself.
The shadows were gathering rapidly round the brig. A mulatto put his
head out of the companion and called out:
"Ready, sir."
"Let's get a mouthful of something to eat, Shaw," said Lingard. "I say,
just take a look around before coming below. It will be dark when we
come up again."
"Certainly, sir," said Shaw, taking up a long glass and putting it to his
eyes. "Blessed thing," he went on in snatches while he worked the
tubes in and out, "I can't--never somehow--Ah! I've got it right at last!"
He revolved slowly on his heels, keeping the end of the tube on the
sky-line. Then he shut the instrument with a click, and said decisively:
"Nothing in sight, sir."
He followed his captain down below rubbing his hands cheerfully.

For a good while there was no sound on the poop of the brig. Then the
seacannie at the wheel spoke dreamily:
"Did the malim say there was no one on the sea?"
"Yes," grunted the serang without looking at the man behind him.
"Between the islands there was a boat," pronounced the man very
softly.
The serang, his hands behind his back, his feet slightly apart, stood
very straight and stiff by the side of the compass stand. His face, now
hardly visible, was as inexpressive as the door of a safe.
"Now, listen to me," insisted the helmsman in a gentle tone.
The man in authority did not budge a hair's breadth. The seacannie bent
down a little from the height of the wheel grating.
"I saw a boat," he murmured with something of the tender obstinacy of
a lover