finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_11_part_0.txt
Lord Jim.chapters 40-45
chapters 40-45
{"name": "Chapters 40-45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-40-45", "summary": "As Brown tells his story to Marlow, Marlow writes that he is struck by his impression of \"an undisguised ruthlessness of purpose, a strange vengeful attitude towards his own past, and a blind belief in the righteousness of his will against all mankind\" . In the battle, Brown was almost paralyzed by fear. The numbers were 200 to one. Fear among the people, however, had also begun to unravel the social fabric. One of Brown's men is shot down, so Brown shoots one of the Bugis three times in the stomach. Then, sounds of joy lift in the air. Cornelius tells Brown that Jim has returned, not afraid of anything. When Brown sees Jim, he sees a man in European clothes, all in white, with a helmet. The two meet near the very spot where Jim had taken \"the second desperate leap of his life--the leap that landed him into the life of Patusan, into the trust, the love, the confidence of the people\" . Brown hates Jim on sight--for his youth and his assurance, his self-possession, his power and neatness. They converse, and Brown yells to him that it was hunger that had driven him to Patusan. Why had Jim come? The conversation strikes Marlow as a duel, and as if Brown, like a great man, had discovered Jim's weakest spot. He says, \"if it came to saving one's life in the dark, one didn't care who else went--three, thirty, three hundred people\" . Jim says nothing in response, and he is struck by \"their common blood, an assumption of common experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge that was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts\" . With that, Jim turns away, telling Brown he will have a clear road or a clear fight . The story now continues from Tamb' Itam's point of view. He describes the shock of Jim insisting that Dain Waris lead. Tamb' Itam is given the duty of sending word to Dain Waris to let Brown and his men pass. Jim includes Stein's silver ring as a sign of good faith and, at the same time, he sends Brown a note with Cornelius as messenger. The note says, \"You get the clear road\" . But, upon delivering the note, Cornelius remains with Brown and tells him that Dain Waris's party is downriver and lying in wait to lay ambush on him as they pass. Brown feels betrayed yet, strangely enough, he doesn't seem to believe it. To be safe, he takes the creek he had noticed upon his first arrival. Through the fog, he takes Cornelius with him in the longboat. After Tamb' Itam approaches Dain Waris's camp and delivers the message with the ring, saying that all is well and that the trouble has passed, Dain Waris slips the ring onto the forefinger of his right hand. Brown's men land nearby and, though Cornelius tries to get away, force him to lead the way to the camp. No one had imagined that the white men would know of the creek. Fourteen shots ring out, and Dain Waris jumps up, running to the open shore. There, Tamb' Itam sees a bullet hit Darin Waris's forehead, and a great fear falls upon him. The white men disappear. Tamb' Itam sees Cornelius and shoots him twice, watching him die. He then hurries back to the town, knowing that it is important that he be the first bearer of the news. When he arrives, the town is festive. He seeks out the girl and reports what has happened. They go to find Jim, and he tells Jim that it is not safe for him to go out amongst the people. This is when Jim understands that it is all over: \"the work of his own hands, had fallen in ruins upon his head\" . Marlow believes it was then that Jim had tried to write to someone. He says to Jewel, \"I have no life\" . The girl insists that either he should fight, or they should run away. But he ignores her. Dain Waris's body is brought to Doramin, and as Doramin sees the wound in the forehead and then the ring on his son's forefinger, he begins to cry in fury. Jim walks to meet him: \"There is nothing to fight for\" . He tells Doramin that he has come ready and unarmed, and that is when Doramin shoots him through the chest. Jim, with a proud and unflinching look, falls dead. The story concludes with Jewel in Stein's home, \"leading a sort of soundless, inert life\" . Stein has grown old and sorrowful. He feels himself preparing to leave \"all this,\" and he \"waves his hand sadly at his butterflies\" .", "analysis": "When Brown and Jim finally meet, Brown expresses hatred.  This hatred is, on some level, understandable.  He hates the world for never having given him the opportunity or the \"clean slate\" that Jim had been given.  When Brown and Jim face each other, each sees in the other a vision of what might have been.  The moment is one of recognition. Brown, the reader can surmise from subtle hints in the narrative, is a quick man.  He is charismatic enough to be a leader, albeit of an outcast group.  Still, his eye sees the hidden creek and, in the way that a great man senses another man's greatest weakness, Brown hits Jim in his weak spot.  He rouses in their interaction a sense of challenge.  Jim, now the embodiment of a mythical romantic ideal, begins to collapse.  The reason is less from a worry that Brown knows who Jim than the realization  that Jim will never be able to escape his moment of weakness on the Patna: his choice is part of his character, and his history is an integral part of his personality.  This history is not knowledge that is external to him, but something that has become deeply seated in his being.  Brown is a personification of that hidden and rejected self-knowledge. Jim likewise recognizes that Brown is a man who has potential or \"Ability in the abstract.\" In an attempt to pass along to him an opportunity in the same generous spirit with which Stein and Marlow had aided him, Jim gives Brown \"the clear road\"--not quite a clean slate, but a chance to achieve his goals.  This is an opportunity for Brown, though it is not nearly of the same quality as the one that had been given to Jim, because the clear road does not promise a realization of the romantic ideal, the achievement of the dreams of a life of glory and honor.  Instead, it is an opportunity for Brown to persist in his merely Darwinian-style struggle to survive.  The lesser opportunity here, however, is perhaps not so much a result of individual potential and character as it is a product of fortune or chance. The tragic conclusion ensues in a fog of mistrust.  Cornelius presses Brown to see the possibility of betrayal, though there is something in Brown that recognizes \"that there could be no treachery intended\" .  Brown is an astute judge of character.  Still, in the end, he acts mistrustful all the same, choosing to be retaliatory and violent.  These actions do more to reveal the true nature of his character.  Up the creek, and in secret, he wreaks havoc and death among Dain Waris's camp, and then escapes quickly. We again meet fairly clear evidence of Brown's character, should the story be true, that he is found at sea in a lifeboat telling the same story that the Patna crew had told their rescuers: the ship had sunk beneath their feet.  The irony in this tale, however, is that Jim had been one of them, as well as \"one of us.\"  Can Jim exorcise from himself the negative spirit that persists in Brown?  The ambiguity of character suggests that all men are mixtures of potential characters: the romantic, the hopeless, the corrupt, and the cowardly.  \"One of us\" can refer to being one more such complex being within the company of all men. As for Jim's fate, Dain Waris's death extinguishes the flame that had charmed the life of Patusan.  This parallel to Stein's best friend being assassinated is obvious, though in Jim's case, the death comes out of a failure of judgment on his part.  The ring, signifying the promise of good will from Stein to Doramin, becomes a symbol of betrayal.  Additionally, the death causes Jim's reputation and secure place in Patusan society to begin to crumble.  He has no place in the world beyond, and now that his work in Patusan is finished, there is nowhere for him to go, except to be extinguished himself. Therefore, as the reader recalls the vision of Stein blowing out a flaming match with the idea that all life is fleeting, Jim is compelled to do what is logically demanded at this climax.  He cannot fight in the way Brown had--struggling for his life--because to do so would liken him further to Brown.  Instead, he leaps in the direction of his fate.  He does not fight it. Jewel, representing the love that the community had felt for Jim and the delight of opportunity he had known, is discarded.  His final atonement requires a clean break.  Jim goes to meet Doramin with a calm face, in the same way that he had arrived, in the face of possible assault.  Here, the assault is certain, and Jim dies in a manner that atones for his past failure at sea.  This time, he goes down with the iron ship as it sinks.  He does not run.  He refuses to leap for a lifeboat to share with Jewel and Tamb' Itam.  Instead he remains--as George had remained--aboard, to die. The native audience looks at Jim's body, as the Muslim pilgrims had looked upon George's, with curiosity and fascination.  The mystery man of Patusan is brought to an end.  Jim is, after all, a man who dies, in spite of the myths of his immortality.  Nevertheless, in true Conradian fashion and poetic tradition, Jim lives on through his show of action.  He remains committed to his ideal and takes responsibility for what he has done and, in this way, Marlow finishes his story.  This man's story is worth finishing.  The inquiry into Jim's soul has been mysterious but it also has been fruitful, revelatory, and illustrative of what is human. The novel concludes with a final view of an aging Stein and a broken, mute Jewel.  The ring has been lost, and there is no one to inherit what Stein has built .  For Stein, the romantic tradition comes to an end.  As his hands wave at the butterflies beneath the glass, we sense that Stein, Jewel, the butterflies, everyone, all etherized in their places, will soon disintegrate into dust."}
'Brown's object was to gain time by fooling with Kassim's diplomacy. For
doing a real stroke of business he could not help thinking the white man
was the person to work with. He could not imagine such a chap (who must
be confoundedly clever after all to get hold of the natives like
that) refusing a help that would do away with the necessity for slow,
cautious, risky cheating, that imposed itself as the only possible
line of conduct for a single-handed man. He, Brown, would offer him
the power. No man could hesitate. Everything was in coming to a clear
understanding. Of course they would share. The idea of there being a
fort--all ready to his hand--a real fort, with artillery (he knew this
from Cornelius), excited him. Let him only once get in and . . . He
would impose modest conditions. Not too low, though. The man was no
fool, it seemed. They would work like brothers till . . . till the time
came for a quarrel and a shot that would settle all accounts. With grim
impatience of plunder he wished himself to be talking with the man now.
The land already seemed to be his to tear to pieces, squeeze, and throw
away. Meantime Kassim had to be fooled for the sake of food first--and
for a second string. But the principal thing was to get something to eat
from day to day. Besides, he was not averse to begin fighting on that
Rajah's account, and teach a lesson to those people who had received him
with shots. The lust of battle was upon him.

'I am sorry that I can't give you this part of the story, which of
course I have mainly from Brown, in Brown's own words. There was in the
broken, violent speech of that man, unveiling before me his thoughts
with the very hand of Death upon his throat, an undisguised ruthlessness
of purpose, a strange vengeful attitude towards his own past, and a
blind belief in the righteousness of his will against all mankind,
something of that feeling which could induce the leader of a horde of
wandering cut-throats to call himself proudly the Scourge of God.
No doubt the natural senseless ferocity which is the basis of such
a character was exasperated by failure, ill-luck, and the recent
privations, as well as by the desperate position in which he found
himself; but what was most remarkable of all was this, that while he
planned treacherous alliances, had already settled in his own mind the
fate of the white man, and intrigued in an overbearing, offhand manner
with Kassim, one could perceive that what he had really desired, almost
in spite of himself, was to play havoc with that jungle town which had
defied him, to see it strewn over with corpses and enveloped in flames.
Listening to his pitiless, panting voice, I could imagine how he must
have looked at it from the hillock, peopling it with images of murder
and rapine. The part nearest to the creek wore an abandoned aspect,
though as a matter of fact every house concealed a few armed men on the
alert. Suddenly beyond the stretch of waste ground, interspersed with
small patches of low dense bush, excavations, heaps of rubbish, with
trodden paths between, a man, solitary and looking very small, strolled
out into the deserted opening of the street between the shut-up, dark,
lifeless buildings at the end. Perhaps one of the inhabitants, who had
fled to the other bank of the river, coming back for some object of
domestic use. Evidently he supposed himself quite safe at that distance
from the hill on the other side of the creek. A light stockade, set up
hastily, was just round the turn of the street, full of his friends.
He moved leisurely. Brown saw him, and instantly called to his side the
Yankee deserter, who acted as a sort of second in command. This lanky,
loose-jointed fellow came forward, wooden-faced, trailing his rifle
lazily. When he understood what was wanted from him a homicidal and
conceited smile uncovered his teeth, making two deep folds down his
sallow, leathery cheeks. He prided himself on being a dead shot. He
dropped on one knee, and taking aim from a steady rest through the
unlopped branches of a felled tree, fired, and at once stood up to look.
The man, far away, turned his head to the report, made another step
forward, seemed to hesitate, and abruptly got down on his hands and
knees. In the silence that fell upon the sharp crack of the rifle, the
dead shot, keeping his eyes fixed upon the quarry, guessed that "this
there coon's health would never be a source of anxiety to his friends
any more." The man's limbs were seen to move rapidly under his body
in an endeavour to run on all-fours. In that empty space arose a
multitudinous shout of dismay and surprise. The man sank flat, face
down, and moved no more. "That showed them what we could do," said Brown
to me. "Struck the fear of sudden death into them. That was what we
wanted. They were two hundred to one, and this gave them something to
think over for the night. Not one of them had an idea of such a long
shot before. That beggar belonging to the Rajah scooted down-hill with
his eyes hanging out of his head."

'As he was telling me this he tried with a shaking hand to wipe the thin
foam on his blue lips. "Two hundred to one. Two hundred to one . . .
strike terror, . . . terror, terror, I tell you. . . ." His own eyes
were starting out of their sockets. He fell back, clawing the air with
skinny fingers, sat up again, bowed and hairy, glared at me sideways
like some man-beast of folk-lore, with open mouth in his miserable and
awful agony before he got his speech back after that fit. There are
sights one never forgets.

'Furthermore, to draw the enemy's fire and locate such parties as
might have been hiding in the bushes along the creek, Brown ordered the
Solomon Islander to go down to the boat and bring an oar, as you send a
spaniel after a stick into the water. This failed, and the fellow came
back without a single shot having been fired at him from anywhere.
"There's nobody," opined some of the men. It is "onnatural," remarked
the Yankee. Kassim had gone, by that time, very much impressed, pleased
too, and also uneasy. Pursuing his tortuous policy, he had dispatched a
message to Dain Waris warning him to look out for the white men's
ship, which, he had had information, was about to come up the river.
He minimised its strength and exhorted him to oppose its passage. This
double-dealing answered his purpose, which was to keep the Bugis forces
divided and to weaken them by fighting. On the other hand, he had in
the course of that day sent word to the assembled Bugis chiefs in town,
assuring them that he was trying to induce the invaders to retire; his
messages to the fort asked earnestly for powder for the Rajah's men. It
was a long time since Tunku Allang had had ammunition for the score or
so of old muskets rusting in their arm-racks in the audience-hall.
The open intercourse between the hill and the palace unsettled all the
minds. It was already time for men to take sides, it began to be said.
There would soon be much bloodshed, and thereafter great trouble for
many people. The social fabric of orderly, peaceful life, when every man
was sure of to-morrow, the edifice raised by Jim's hands, seemed on that
evening ready to collapse into a ruin reeking with blood. The poorer
folk were already taking to the bush or flying up the river. A good many
of the upper class judged it necessary to go and pay their court to the
Rajah. The Rajah's youths jostled them rudely. Old Tunku Allang, almost
out of his mind with fear and indecision, either kept a sullen silence
or abused them violently for daring to come with empty hands: they
departed very much frightened; only old Doramin kept his countrymen
together and pursued his tactics inflexibly. Enthroned in a big chair
behind the improvised stockade, he issued his orders in a deep veiled
rumble, unmoved, like a deaf man, in the flying rumours.

'Dusk fell, hiding first the body of the dead man, which had been left
lying with arms outstretched as if nailed to the ground, and then the
revolving sphere of the night rolled smoothly over Patusan and came to
a rest, showering the glitter of countless worlds upon the earth. Again,
in the exposed part of the town big fires blazed along the only street,
revealing from distance to distance upon their glares the falling
straight lines of roofs, the fragments of wattled walls jumbled in
confusion, here and there a whole hut elevated in the glow upon the
vertical black stripes of a group of high piles and all this line of
dwellings, revealed in patches by the swaying flames, seemed to flicker
tortuously away up-river into the gloom at the heart of the land. A
great silence, in which the looms of successive fires played without
noise, extended into the darkness at the foot of the hill; but the
other bank of the river, all dark save for a solitary bonfire at the
river-front before the fort, sent out into the air an increasing tremor
that might have been the stamping of a multitude of feet, the hum of
many voices, or the fall of an immensely distant waterfall. It was
then, Brown confessed to me, while, turning his back on his men, he sat
looking at it all, that notwithstanding his disdain, his ruthless faith
in himself, a feeling came over him that at last he had run his head
against a stone wall. Had his boat been afloat at the time, he believed
he would have tried to steal away, taking his chances of a long chase
down the river and of starvation at sea. It is very doubtful whether he
would have succeeded in getting away. However, he didn't try this. For
another moment he had a passing thought of trying to rush the town,
but he perceived very well that in the end he would find himself in the
lighted street, where they would be shot down like dogs from the houses.
They were two hundred to one--he thought, while his men, huddling round
two heaps of smouldering embers, munched the last of the bananas and
roasted the few yams they owed to Kassim's diplomacy. Cornelius sat
amongst them dozing sulkily.

'Then one of the whites remembered that some tobacco had been left in
the boat, and, encouraged by the impunity of the Solomon Islander,
said he would go to fetch it. At this all the others shook off
their despondency. Brown applied to, said, "Go, and be d--d to you,"
scornfully. He didn't think there was any danger in going to the creek
in the dark. The man threw a leg over the tree-trunk and disappeared. A
moment later he was heard clambering into the boat and then clambering
out. "I've got it," he cried. A flash and a report at the very foot of
the hill followed. "I am hit," yelled the man. "Look out, look out--I am
hit," and instantly all the rifles went off. The hill squirted fire
and noise into the night like a little volcano, and when Brown and
the Yankee with curses and cuffs stopped the panic-stricken firing, a
profound, weary groan floated up from the creek, succeeded by a plaint
whose heartrending sadness was like some poison turning the blood
cold in the veins. Then a strong voice pronounced several distinct
incomprehensible words somewhere beyond the creek. "Let no one fire,"
shouted Brown. "What does it mean?" . . . "Do you hear on the hill?
Do you hear? Do you hear?" repeated the voice three times. Cornelius
translated, and then prompted the answer. "Speak," cried Brown, "we
hear." Then the voice, declaiming in the sonorous inflated tone of a
herald, and shifting continually on the edge of the vague waste-land,
proclaimed that between the men of the Bugis nation living in Patusan
and the white men on the hill and those with them, there would be no
faith, no compassion, no speech, no peace. A bush rustled; a haphazard
volley rang out. "Dam' foolishness," muttered the Yankee, vexedly
grounding the butt. Cornelius translated. The wounded man below
the hill, after crying out twice, "Take me up! take me up!" went on
complaining in moans. While he had kept on the blackened earth of the
slope, and afterwards crouching in the boat, he had been safe enough.
It seems that in his joy at finding the tobacco he forgot himself and
jumped out on her off-side, as it were. The white boat, lying high and
dry, showed him up; the creek was no more than seven yards wide in that
place, and there happened to be a man crouching in the bush on the other
bank.

'He was a Bugis of Tondano only lately come to Patusan, and a relation
of the man shot in the afternoon. That famous long shot had indeed
appalled the beholders. The man in utter security had been struck down,
in full view of his friends, dropping with a joke on his lips, and they
seemed to see in the act an atrocity which had stirred a bitter rage.
That relation of his, Si-Lapa by name, was then with Doramin in the
stockade only a few feet away. You who know these chaps must admit that
the fellow showed an unusual pluck by volunteering to carry the message,
alone, in the dark. Creeping across the open ground, he had deviated
to the left and found himself opposite the boat. He was startled when
Brown's man shouted. He came to a sitting position with his gun to his
shoulder, and when the other jumped out, exposing himself, he pulled the
trigger and lodged three jagged slugs point-blank into the poor wretch's
stomach. Then, lying flat on his face, he gave himself up for dead,
while a thin hail of lead chopped and swished the bushes close on his
right hand; afterwards he delivered his speech shouting, bent double,
dodging all the time in cover. With the last word he leaped sideways,
lay close for a while, and afterwards got back to the houses unharmed,
having achieved on that night such a renown as his children will not
willingly allow to die.

'And on the hill the forlorn band let the two little heaps of embers
go out under their bowed heads. They sat dejected on the ground with
compressed lips and downcast eyes, listening to their comrade below. He
was a strong man and died hard, with moans now loud, now sinking to a
strange confidential note of pain. Sometimes he shrieked, and again,
after a period of silence, he could be heard muttering deliriously a
long and unintelligible complaint. Never for a moment did he cease.

'"What's the good?" Brown had said unmoved once, seeing the Yankee, who
had been swearing under his breath, prepare to go down. "That's so,"
assented the deserter, reluctantly desisting. "There's no encouragement
for wounded men here. Only his noise is calculated to make all the
others think too much of the hereafter, cap'n." "Water!" cried the
wounded man in an extraordinarily clear vigorous voice, and then went
off moaning feebly. "Ay, water. Water will do it," muttered the other to
himself, resignedly. "Plenty by-and-by. The tide is flowing."

'At last the tide flowed, silencing the plaint and the cries of pain,
and the dawn was near when Brown, sitting with his chin in the palm of
his hand before Patusan, as one might stare at the unscalable side of a
mountain, heard the brief ringing bark of a brass 6-pounder far away
in town somewhere. "What's this?" he asked of Cornelius, who hung about
him. Cornelius listened. A muffled roaring shout rolled down-river over
the town; a big drum began to throb, and others responded, pulsating and
droning. Tiny scattered lights began to twinkle in the dark half of the
town, while the part lighted by the loom of fires hummed with a deep and
prolonged murmur. "He has come," said Cornelius. "What? Already? Are
you sure?" Brown asked. "Yes! yes! Sure. Listen to the noise." "What
are they making that row about?" pursued Brown. "For joy," snorted
Cornelius; "he is a very great man, but all the same, he knows no more
than a child, and so they make a great noise to please him, because they
know no better." "Look here," said Brown, "how is one to get at him?"
"He shall come to talk to you," Cornelius declared. "What do you mean?
Come down here strolling as it were?" Cornelius nodded vigorously in the
dark. "Yes. He will come straight here and talk to you. He is just like
a fool. You shall see what a fool he is." Brown was incredulous. "You
shall see; you shall see," repeated Cornelius. "He is not afraid--not
afraid of anything. He will come and order you to leave his people
alone. Everybody must leave his people alone. He is like a little child.
He will come to you straight." Alas! he knew Jim well--that "mean little
skunk," as Brown called him to me. "Yes, certainly," he pursued with
ardour, "and then, captain, you tell that tall man with a gun to shoot
him. Just you kill him, and you will frighten everybody so much that
you can do anything you like with them afterwards--get what you like--go
away when you like. Ha! ha! ha! Fine . . ." He almost danced with
impatience and eagerness; and Brown, looking over his shoulder at him,
could see, shown up by the pitiless dawn, his men drenched with dew,
sitting amongst the cold ashes and the litter of the camp, haggard,
cowed, and in rags.'


'To the very last moment, till the full day came upon them with a
spring, the fires on the west bank blazed bright and clear; and then
Brown saw in a knot of coloured figures motionless between the advanced
houses a man in European clothes, in a helmet, all white. "That's him;
look! look!" Cornelius said excitedly. All Brown's men had sprung up and
crowded at his back with lustreless eyes. The group of vivid colours
and dark faces with the white figure in their midst were observing the
knoll. Brown could see naked arms being raised to shade the eyes and
other brown arms pointing. What should he do? He looked around, and the
forests that faced him on all sides walled the cock-pit of an unequal
contest. He looked once more at his men. A contempt, a weariness, the
desire of life, the wish to try for one more chance--for some other
grave--struggled in his breast. From the outline the figure presented
it seemed to him that the white man there, backed up by all the power of
the land, was examining his position through binoculars. Brown jumped up
on the log, throwing his arms up, the palms outwards. The coloured group
closed round the white man, and fell back twice before he got clear of
them, walking slowly alone. Brown remained standing on the log till
Jim, appearing and disappearing between the patches of thorny scrub, had
nearly reached the creek; then Brown jumped off and went down to meet
him on his side.

'They met, I should think, not very far from the place, perhaps on the
very spot, where Jim took the second desperate leap of his life--the
leap that landed him into the life of Patusan, into the trust, the love,
the confidence of the people. They faced each other across the creek,
and with steady eyes tried to understand each other before they opened
their lips. Their antagonism must have been expressed in their glances;
I know that Brown hated Jim at first sight. Whatever hopes he might have
had vanished at once. This was not the man he had expected to see. He
hated him for this--and in a checked flannel shirt with sleeves cut
off at the elbows, grey bearded, with a sunken, sun-blackened face--he
cursed in his heart the other's youth and assurance, his clear eyes and
his untroubled bearing. That fellow had got in a long way before him!
He did not look like a man who would be willing to give anything for
assistance. He had all the advantages on his side--possession, security,
power; he was on the side of an overwhelming force! He was not hungry
and desperate, and he did not seem in the least afraid. And there was
something in the very neatness of Jim's clothes, from the white helmet
to the canvas leggings and the pipeclayed shoes, which in Brown's sombre
irritated eyes seemed to belong to things he had in the very shaping of
his life condemned and flouted.

'"Who are you?" asked Jim at last, speaking in his usual voice. "My
name's Brown," answered the other loudly; "Captain Brown. What's yours?"
and Jim after a little pause went on quietly, as If he had not heard:
"What made you come here?" "You want to know," said Brown bitterly.
"It's easy to tell. Hunger. And what made you?"

'"The fellow started at this," said Brown, relating to me the opening of
this strange conversation between those two men, separated only by
the muddy bed of a creek, but standing on the opposite poles of that
conception of life which includes all mankind--"The fellow started at
this and got very red in the face. Too big to be questioned, I suppose.
I told him that if he looked upon me as a dead man with whom you may
take liberties, he himself was not a whit better off really. I had
a fellow up there who had a bead drawn on him all the time, and only
waited for a sign from me. There was nothing to be shocked at in this.
He had come down of his own free will. 'Let us agree,' said I, 'that we
are both dead men, and let us talk on that basis, as equals. We are
all equal before death,' I said. I admitted I was there like a rat in
a trap, but we had been driven to it, and even a trapped rat can give
a bite. He caught me up in a moment. 'Not if you don't go near the trap
till the rat is dead.' I told him that sort of game was good enough for
these native friends of his, but I would have thought him too white to
serve even a rat so. Yes, I had wanted to talk with him. Not to beg
for my life, though. My fellows were--well--what they were--men like
himself, anyhow. All we wanted from him was to come on in the devil's
name and have it out. 'God d--n it,' said I, while he stood there as
still as a wooden post, 'you don't want to come out here every day with
your glasses to count how many of us are left on our feet. Come. Either
bring your infernal crowd along or let us go out and starve in the open
sea, by God! You have been white once, for all your tall talk of this
being your own people and you being one with them. Are you? And what the
devil do you get for it; what is it you've found here that is so d--d
precious? Hey? You don't want us to come down here perhaps--do you? You
are two hundred to one. You don't want us to come down into the open.
Ah! I promise you we shall give you some sport before you've done. You
talk about me making a cowardly set upon unoffending people. What's
that to me that they are unoffending, when I am starving for next to no
offence? But I am not a coward. Don't you be one. Bring them along or,
by all the fiends, we shall yet manage to send half your unoffending
town to heaven with us in smoke!'"

'He was terrible--relating this to me--this tortured skeleton of a man
drawn up together with his face over his knees, upon a miserable bed in
that wretched hovel, and lifting his head to look at me with malignant
triumph.

'"That's what I told him--I knew what to say," he began again, feebly
at first, but working himself up with incredible speed into a fiery
utterance of his scorn. "We aren't going into the forest to wander like
a string of living skeletons dropping one after another for ants to
go to work upon us before we are fairly dead. Oh no! . . . 'You don't
deserve a better fate,' he said. 'And what do you deserve,' I shouted
at him, 'you that I find skulking here with your mouth full of your
responsibility, of innocent lives, of your infernal duty? What do
you know more of me than I know of you? I came here for food. D'ye
hear?--food to fill our bellies. And what did _you_ come for? What did
you ask for when you came here? We don't ask you for anything but to
give us a fight or a clear road to go back whence we came. . . .' 'I
would fight with you now,' says he, pulling at his little moustache.
'And I would let you shoot me, and welcome,' I said. 'This is as good a
jumping-off place for me as another. I am sick of my infernal luck. But
it would be too easy. There are my men in the same boat--and, by God, I
am not the sort to jump out of trouble and leave them in a d--d lurch,'
I said. He stood thinking for a while and then wanted to know what I
had done ('out there' he says, tossing his head down-stream) to be hazed
about so. 'Have we met to tell each other the story of our lives?' I
asked him. 'Suppose you begin. No? Well, I am sure I don't want to hear.
Keep it to yourself. I know it is no better than mine. I've lived--and
so did you, though you talk as if you were one of those people that
should have wings so as to go about without touching the dirty earth.
Well--it is dirty. I haven't got any wings. I am here because I was
afraid once in my life. Want to know what of? Of a prison. That scares
me, and you may know it--if it's any good to you. I won't ask you what
scared you into this infernal hole, where you seem to have found pretty
pickings. That's your luck and this is mine--the privilege to beg for
the favour of being shot quickly, or else kicked out to go free and
starve in my own way.' . . ."

'His debilitated body shook with an exultation so vehement, so assured,
and so malicious that it seemed to have driven off the death waiting for
him in that hut. The corpse of his mad self-love uprose from rags and
destitution as from the dark horrors of a tomb. It is impossible to say
how much he lied to Jim then, how much he lied to me now--and to himself
always. Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of
every passion wants some pretence to make it live. Standing at the gate
of the other world in the guise of a beggar, he had slapped this world's
face, he had spat on it, he had thrown upon it an immensity of scorn
and revolt at the bottom of his misdeeds. He had overcome them all--men,
women, savages, traders, ruffians, missionaries--and Jim--"that
beefy-faced beggar." I did not begrudge him this triumph in articulo
mortis, this almost posthumous illusion of having trampled all the earth
under his feet. While he was boasting to me, in his sordid and repulsive
agony, I couldn't help thinking of the chuckling talk relating to the
time of his greatest splendour when, during a year or more, Gentleman
Brown's ship was to be seen, for many days on end, hovering off an islet
befringed with green upon azure, with the dark dot of the mission-house
on a white beach; while Gentleman Brown, ashore, was casting his spells
over a romantic girl for whom Melanesia had been too much, and giving
hopes of a remarkable conversion to her husband. The poor man, some time
or other, had been heard to express the intention of winning "Captain
Brown to a better way of life." . . . "Bag Gentleman Brown for
Glory"--as a leery-eyed loafer expressed it once--"just to let them see
up above what a Western Pacific trading skipper looks like." And this
was the man, too, who had run off with a dying woman, and had shed tears
over her body. "Carried on like a big baby," his then mate was never
tired of telling, "and where the fun came in may I be kicked to death by
diseased Kanakas if _I_ know. Why, gents! she was too far gone when he
brought her aboard to know him; she just lay there on her back in his
bunk staring at the beam with awful shining eyes--and then she died.
Dam' bad sort of fever, I guess. . . ." I remembered all these stories
while, wiping his matted lump of a beard with a livid hand, he was
telling me from his noisome couch how he got round, got in, got home,
on that confounded, immaculate, don't-you-touch-me sort of fellow. He
admitted that he couldn't be scared, but there was a way, "as broad as
a turnpike, to get in and shake his twopenny soul around and inside out
and upside down--by God!"''I don't think he could do more than perhaps look upon that straight
path. He seemed to have been puzzled by what he saw, for he interrupted
himself in his narrative more than once to exclaim, "He nearly slipped
from me there. I could not make him out. Who was he?" And after
glaring at me wildly he would go on, jubilating and sneering. To me the
conversation of these two across the creek appears now as the deadliest
kind of duel on which Fate looked on with her cold-eyed knowledge of the
end. No, he didn't turn Jim's soul inside out, but I am much mistaken if
the spirit so utterly out of his reach had not been made to taste to the
full the bitterness of that contest. These were the emissaries with whom
the world he had renounced was pursuing him in his retreat--white men
from "out there" where he did not think himself good enough to live.
This was all that came to him--a menace, a shock, a danger to his
work. I suppose it is this sad, half-resentful, half-resigned feeling,
piercing through the few words Jim said now and then, that puzzled Brown
so much in the reading of his character. Some great men owe most of
their greatness to the ability of detecting in those they destine for
their tools the exact quality of strength that matters for their work;
and Brown, as though he had been really great, had a satanic gift of
finding out the best and the weakest spot in his victims. He admitted
to me that Jim wasn't of the sort that can be got over by truckling, and
accordingly he took care to show himself as a man confronting without
dismay ill-luck, censure, and disaster. The smuggling of a few guns was
no great crime, he pointed out. As to coming to Patusan, who had the
right to say he hadn't come to beg? The infernal people here let loose
at him from both banks without staying to ask questions. He made
the point brazenly, for, in truth, Dain Waris's energetic action had
prevented the greatest calamities; because Brown told me distinctly
that, perceiving the size of the place, he had resolved instantly in his
mind that as soon as he had gained a footing he would set fire right and
left, and begin by shooting down everything living in sight, in order to
cow and terrify the population. The disproportion of forces was so great
that this was the only way giving him the slightest chance of attaining
his ends--he argued in a fit of coughing. But he didn't tell Jim this.
As to the hardships and starvation they had gone through, these had been
very real; it was enough to look at his band. He made, at the sound of a
shrill whistle, all his men appear standing in a row on the logs in full
view, so that Jim could see them. For the killing of the man, it had
been done--well, it had--but was not this war, bloody war--in a corner?
and the fellow had been killed cleanly, shot through the chest, not like
that poor devil of his lying now in the creek. They had to listen to him
dying for six hours, with his entrails torn with slugs. At any rate this
was a life for a life. . . . And all this was said with the weariness,
with the recklessness of a man spurred on and on by ill-luck till he
cares not where he runs. When he asked Jim, with a sort of brusque
despairing frankness, whether he himself--straight now--didn't
understand that when "it came to saving one's life in the dark, one
didn't care who else went--three, thirty, three hundred people"--it was
as if a demon had been whispering advice in his ear. "I made him wince,"
boasted Brown to me. "He very soon left off coming the righteous over
me. He just stood there with nothing to say, and looking as black as
thunder--not at me--on the ground." He asked Jim whether he had nothing
fishy in his life to remember that he was so damnedly hard upon a man
trying to get out of a deadly hole by the first means that came to
hand--and so on, and so on. And there ran through the rough talk a
vein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common
experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge
that was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts.

'At last Brown threw himself down full length and watched Jim out of
the corners of his eyes. Jim on his side of the creek stood thinking and
switching his leg. The houses in view were silent, as if a pestilence
had swept them clean of every breath of life; but many invisible eyes
were turned, from within, upon the two men with the creek between them,
a stranded white boat, and the body of the third man half sunk in the
mud. On the river canoes were moving again, for Patusan was recovering
its belief in the stability of earthly institutions since the return of
the white lord. The right bank, the platforms of the houses, the rafts
moored along the shores, even the roofs of bathing-huts, were covered
with people that, far away out of earshot and almost out of sight, were
straining their eyes towards the knoll beyond the Rajah's stockade.
Within the wide irregular ring of forests, broken in two places by the
sheen of the river, there was a silence. "Will you promise to leave the
coast?" Jim asked. Brown lifted and let fall his hand, giving everything
up as it were--accepting the inevitable. "And surrender your arms?" Jim
went on. Brown sat up and glared across. "Surrender our arms! Not till
you come to take them out of our stiff hands. You think I am gone crazy
with funk? Oh no! That and the rags I stand in is all I have got in the
world, besides a few more breechloaders on board; and I expect to sell
the lot in Madagascar, if I ever get so far--begging my way from ship to
ship."

'Jim said nothing to this. At last, throwing away the switch he held in
his hand, he said, as if speaking to himself, "I don't know whether I
have the power." . . . "You don't know! And you wanted me just now to
give up my arms! That's good, too," cried Brown; "Suppose they say one
thing to you, and do the other thing to me." He calmed down markedly. "I
dare say you have the power, or what's the meaning of all this talk?" he
continued. "What did you come down here for? To pass the time of day?"

'"Very well," said Jim, lifting his head suddenly after a long silence.
"You shall have a clear road or else a clear fight." He turned on his
heel and walked away.

'Brown got up at once, but he did not go up the hill till he had seen
Jim disappear between the first houses. He never set his eyes on him
again. On his way back he met Cornelius slouching down with his head
between his shoulders. He stopped before Brown. "Why didn't you kill
him?" he demanded in a sour, discontented voice. "Because I could do
better than that," Brown said with an amused smile. "Never! never!"
protested Cornelius with energy. "Couldn't. I have lived here for many
years." Brown looked up at him curiously. There were many sides to the
life of that place in arms against him; things he would never find out.
Cornelius slunk past dejectedly in the direction of the river. He was
now leaving his new friends; he accepted the disappointing course of
events with a sulky obstinacy which seemed to draw more together his
little yellow old face; and as he went down he glanced askant here and
there, never giving up his fixed idea.

'Henceforth events move fast without a check, flowing from the very
hearts of men like a stream from a dark source, and we see Jim amongst
them, mostly through Tamb' Itam's eyes. The girl's eyes had watched him
too, but her life is too much entwined with his: there is her passion,
her wonder, her anger, and, above all, her fear and her unforgiving
love. Of the faithful servant, uncomprehending as the rest of them, it
is the fidelity alone that comes into play; a fidelity and a belief in
his lord so strong that even amazement is subdued to a sort of saddened
acceptance of a mysterious failure. He has eyes only for one figure,
and through all the mazes of bewilderment he preserves his air of
guardianship, of obedience, of care.

'His master came back from his talk with the white men, walking slowly
towards the stockade in the street. Everybody was rejoiced to see him
return, for while he was away every man had been afraid not only of him
being killed, but also of what would come after. Jim went into one of
the houses, where old Doramin had retired, and remained alone for a
long time with the head of the Bugis settlers. No doubt he discussed
the course to follow with him then, but no man was present at the
conversation. Only Tamb' Itam, keeping as close to the door as he could,
heard his master say, "Yes. I shall let all the people know that such
is my wish; but I spoke to you, O Doramin, before all the others, and
alone; for you know my heart as well as I know yours and its greatest
desire. And you know well also that I have no thought but for the
people's good." Then his master, lifting the sheeting in the doorway,
went out, and he, Tamb' Itam, had a glimpse of old Doramin within,
sitting in the chair with his hands on his knees, and looking between
his feet. Afterwards he followed his master to the fort, where all the
principal Bugis and Patusan inhabitants had been summoned for a talk.
Tamb' Itam himself hoped there would be some fighting. "What was it but
the taking of another hill?" he exclaimed regretfully. However, in the
town many hoped that the rapacious strangers would be induced, by the
sight of so many brave men making ready to fight, to go away. It would
be a good thing if they went away. Since Jim's arrival had been made
known before daylight by the gun fired from the fort and the beating of
the big drum there, the fear that had hung over Patusan had broken and
subsided like a wave on a rock, leaving the seething foam of excitement,
curiosity, and endless speculation. Half of the population had been
ousted out of their homes for purposes of defence, and were living in
the street on the left side of the river, crowding round the fort, and
in momentary expectation of seeing their abandoned dwellings on the
threatened bank burst into flames. The general anxiety was to see the
matter settled quickly. Food, through Jewel's care, had been served
out to the refugees. Nobody knew what their white man would do. Some
remarked that it was worse than in Sherif Ali's war. Then many people
did not care; now everybody had something to lose. The movements of
canoes passing to and fro between the two parts of the town were watched
with interest. A couple of Bugis war-boats lay anchored in the middle of
the stream to protect the river, and a thread of smoke stood at the bow
of each; the men in them were cooking their midday rice when Jim, after
his interviews with Brown and Doramin, crossed the river and entered by
the water-gate of his fort. The people inside crowded round him, so that
he could hardly make his way to the house. They had not seen him before,
because on his arrival during the night he had only exchanged a few
words with the girl, who had come down to the landing-stage for the
purpose, and had then gone on at once to join the chiefs and the
fighting men on the other bank. People shouted greetings after him.
One old woman raised a laugh by pushing her way to the front madly and
enjoining him in a scolding voice to see to it that her two sons, who
were with Doramin, did not come to harm at the hands of the robbers.
Several of the bystanders tried to pull her away, but she struggled and
cried, "Let me go. What is this, O Muslims? This laughter is unseemly.
Are they not cruel, bloodthirsty robbers bent on killing?" "Let her be,"
said Jim, and as a silence fell suddenly, he said slowly, "Everybody
shall be safe." He entered the house before the great sigh, and the loud
murmurs of satisfaction, had died out.

'There's no doubt his mind was made up that Brown should have his way
clear back to the sea. His fate, revolted, was forcing his hand. He
had for the first time to affirm his will in the face of outspoken
opposition. "There was much talk, and at first my master was silent,"
Tamb' Itam said. "Darkness came, and then I lit the candles on the long
table. The chiefs sat on each side, and the lady remained by my master's
right hand."

'When he began to speak, the unaccustomed difficulty seemed only to
fix his resolve more immovably. The white men were now waiting for his
answer on the hill. Their chief had spoken to him in the language of his
own people, making clear many things difficult to explain in any other
speech. They were erring men whom suffering had made blind to right and
wrong. It is true that lives had been lost already, but why lose more?
He declared to his hearers, the assembled heads of the people, that
their welfare was his welfare, their losses his losses, their mourning
his mourning. He looked round at the grave listening faces and told them
to remember that they had fought and worked side by side. They knew his
courage . . . Here a murmur interrupted him . . . And that he had never
deceived them. For many years they had dwelt together. He loved the
land and the people living in it with a very great love. He was ready to
answer with his life for any harm that should come to them if the white
men with beards were allowed to retire. They were evil-doers, but their
destiny had been evil, too. Had he ever advised them ill? Had his words
ever brought suffering to the people? he asked. He believed that it
would be best to let these whites and their followers go with their
lives. It would be a small gift. "I whom you have tried and found always
true ask you to let them go." He turned to Doramin. The old nakhoda made
no movement. "Then," said Jim, "call in Dain Waris, your son, my friend,
for in this business I shall not lead."'
'Tamb' Itam behind his chair was thunderstruck. The declaration produced
an immense sensation. "Let them go because this is best in my knowledge
which has never deceived you," Jim insisted. There was a silence. In
the darkness of the courtyard could be heard the subdued whispering,
shuffling noise of many people. Doramin raised his heavy head and said
that there was no more reading of hearts than touching the sky with the
hand, but--he consented. The others gave their opinion in turn. "It is
best," "Let them go," and so on. But most of them simply said that they
"believed Tuan Jim."

'In this simple form of assent to his will lies the whole gist of
the situation; their creed, his truth; and the testimony to that
faithfulness which made him in his own eyes the equal of the
impeccable men who never fall out of the ranks. Stein's words,
"Romantic!--Romantic!" seem to ring over those distances that will never
give him up now to a world indifferent to his failings and his virtues,
and to that ardent and clinging affection that refuses him the dole of
tears in the bewilderment of a great grief and of eternal separation.
From the moment the sheer truthfulness of his last three years of life
carries the day against the ignorance, the fear, and the anger of men,
he appears no longer to me as I saw him last--a white speck catching all
the dim light left upon a sombre coast and the darkened sea--but greater
and more pitiful in the loneliness of his soul, that remains even for
her who loved him best a cruel and insoluble mystery.

'It is evident that he did not mistrust Brown; there was no reason to
doubt the story, whose truth seemed warranted by the rough frankness,
by a sort of virile sincerity in accepting the morality and the
consequences of his acts. But Jim did not know the almost inconceivable
egotism of the man which made him, when resisted and foiled in his will,
mad with the indignant and revengeful rage of a thwarted autocrat.
But if Jim did not mistrust Brown, he was evidently anxious that some
misunderstanding should not occur, ending perhaps in collision and
bloodshed. It was for this reason that directly the Malay chiefs had
gone he asked Jewel to get him something to eat, as he was going out of
the fort to take command in the town. On her remonstrating against this
on the score of his fatigue, he said that something might happen for
which he would never forgive himself. "I am responsible for every life
in the land," he said. He was moody at first; she served him with her
own hands, taking the plates and dishes (of the dinner-service presented
him by Stein) from Tamb' Itam. He brightened up after a while; told her
she would be again in command of the fort for another night. "There's
no sleep for us, old girl," he said, "while our people are in danger."
Later on he said jokingly that she was the best man of them all. "If you
and Dain Waris had done what you wanted, not one of these poor devils
would be alive to-day." "Are they very bad?" she asked, leaning over his
chair. "Men act badly sometimes without being much worse than others,"
he said after some hesitation.

'Tamb' Itam followed his master to the landing-stage outside the fort.
The night was clear but without a moon, and the middle of the river was
dark, while the water under each bank reflected the light of many fires
"as on a night of Ramadan," Tamb' Itam said. War-boats drifted silently
in the dark lane or, anchored, floated motionless with a loud ripple.
That night there was much paddling in a canoe and walking at his
master's heels for Tamb' Itam: up and down the street they tramped,
where the fires were burning, inland on the outskirts of the town where
small parties of men kept guard in the fields. Tuan Jim gave his orders
and was obeyed. Last of all they went to the Rajah's stockade, which a
detachment of Jim's people manned on that night. The old Rajah had fled
early in the morning with most of his women to a small house he had
near a jungle village on a tributary stream. Kassim, left behind, had
attended the council with his air of diligent activity to explain away
the diplomacy of the day before. He was considerably cold-shouldered,
but managed to preserve his smiling, quiet alertness, and professed
himself highly delighted when Jim told him sternly that he proposed to
occupy the stockade on that night with his own men. After the council
broke up he was heard outside accosting this and that deputing chief,
and speaking in a loud, gratified tone of the Rajah's property being
protected in the Rajah's absence.

'About ten or so Jim's men marched in. The stockade commanded the mouth
of the creek, and Jim meant to remain there till Brown had passed below.
A small fire was lit on the flat, grassy point outside the wall of
stakes, and Tamb' Itam placed a little folding-stool for his master. Jim
told him to try and sleep. Tamb' Itam got a mat and lay down a little
way off; but he could not sleep, though he knew he had to go on an
important journey before the night was out. His master walked to and fro
before the fire with bowed head and with his hands behind his back. His
face was sad. Whenever his master approached him Tamb' Itam pretended to
sleep, not wishing his master to know he had been watched. At last his
master stood still, looking down on him as he lay, and said softly, "It
is time."

'Tamb' Itam arose directly and made his preparations. His mission was
to go down the river, preceding Brown's boat by an hour or more, to tell
Dain Waris finally and formally that the whites were to be allowed to
pass out unmolested. Jim would not trust anybody else with that service.
Before starting, Tamb' Itam, more as a matter of form (since his
position about Jim made him perfectly known), asked for a token.
"Because, Tuan," he said, "the message is important, and these are thy
very words I carry." His master first put his hand into one pocket, then
into another, and finally took off his forefinger Stein's silver ring,
which he habitually wore, and gave it to Tamb' Itam. When Tamb' Itam
left on his mission, Brown's camp on the knoll was dark but for a single
small glow shining through the branches of one of the trees the white
men had cut down.

'Early in the evening Brown had received from Jim a folded piece of
paper on which was written, "You get the clear road. Start as soon
as your boat floats on the morning tide. Let your men be careful. The
bushes on both sides of the creek and the stockade at the mouth are full
of well-armed men. You would have no chance, but I don't believe you
want bloodshed." Brown read it, tore the paper into small pieces, and,
turning to Cornelius, who had brought it, said jeeringly, "Good-bye, my
excellent friend." Cornelius had been in the fort, and had been sneaking
around Jim's house during the afternoon. Jim chose him to carry the note
because he could speak English, was known to Brown, and was not likely
to be shot by some nervous mistake of one of the men as a Malay,
approaching in the dusk, perhaps might have been.

'Cornelius didn't go away after delivering the paper. Brown was sitting
up over a tiny fire; all the others were lying down. "I could tell you
something you would like to know," Cornelius mumbled crossly. Brown paid
no attention. "You did not kill him," went on the other, "and what do
you get for it? You might have had money from the Rajah, besides the
loot of all the Bugis houses, and now you get nothing." "You had better
clear out from here," growled Brown, without even looking at him. But
Cornelius let himself drop by his side and began to whisper very fast,
touching his elbow from time to time. What he had to say made Brown sit
up at first, with a curse. He had simply informed him of Dain Waris's
armed party down the river. At first Brown saw himself completely sold
and betrayed, but a moment's reflection convinced him that there could
be no treachery intended. He said nothing, and after a while Cornelius
remarked, in a tone of complete indifference, that there was another way
out of the river which he knew very well. "A good thing to know, too,"
said Brown, pricking up his ears; and Cornelius began to talk of
what went on in town and repeated all that had been said in council,
gossiping in an even undertone at Brown's ear as you talk amongst
sleeping men you do not wish to wake. "He thinks he has made me
harmless, does he?" mumbled Brown very low. . . . "Yes. He is a fool. A
little child. He came here and robbed me," droned on Cornelius, "and he
made all the people believe him. But if something happened that they did
not believe him any more, where would he be? And the Bugis Dain who
is waiting for you down the river there, captain, is the very man who
chased you up here when you first came." Brown observed nonchalantly
that it would be just as well to avoid him, and with the same detached,
musing air Cornelius declared himself acquainted with a backwater broad
enough to take Brown's boat past Waris's camp. "You will have to be
quiet," he said as an afterthought, "for in one place we pass close
behind his camp. Very close. They are camped ashore with their boats
hauled up." "Oh, we know how to be as quiet as mice; never fear," said
Brown. Cornelius stipulated that in case he were to pilot Brown out, his
canoe should be towed. "I'll have to get back quick," he explained.

'It was two hours before the dawn when word was passed to the stockade
from outlying watchers that the white robbers were coming down to their
boat. In a very short time every armed man from one end of Patusan
to the other was on the alert, yet the banks of the river remained so
silent that but for the fires burning with sudden blurred flares the
town might have been asleep as if in peace-time. A heavy mist lay very
low on the water, making a sort of illusive grey light that showed
nothing. When Brown's long-boat glided out of the creek into the
river, Jim was standing on the low point of land before the Rajah's
stockade--on the very spot where for the first time he put his foot on
Patusan shore. A shadow loomed up, moving in the greyness, solitary,
very bulky, and yet constantly eluding the eye. A murmur of low talking
came out of it. Brown at the tiller heard Jim speak calmly: "A clear
road. You had better trust to the current while the fog lasts; but
this will lift presently." "Yes, presently we shall see clear," replied
Brown.

'The thirty or forty men standing with muskets at ready outside the
stockade held their breath. The Bugis owner of the prau, whom I saw
on Stein's verandah, and who was amongst them, told me that the boat,
shaving the low point close, seemed for a moment to grow big and hang
over it like a mountain. "If you think it worth your while to wait a
day outside," called out Jim, "I'll try to send you down something--a
bullock, some yams--what I can." The shadow went on moving. "Yes. Do,"
said a voice, blank and muffled out of the fog. Not one of the many
attentive listeners understood what the words meant; and then Brown
and his men in their boat floated away, fading spectrally without the
slightest sound.

'Thus Brown, invisible in the mist, goes out of Patusan elbow to elbow
with Cornelius in the stern-sheets of the long-boat. "Perhaps you shall
get a small bullock," said Cornelius. "Oh yes. Bullock. Yam. You'll get
it if he said so. He always speaks the truth. He stole everything I had.
I suppose you like a small bullock better than the loot of many houses."
"I would advise you to hold your tongue, or somebody here may fling
you overboard into this damned fog," said Brown. The boat seemed to be
standing still; nothing could be seen, not even the river alongside,
only the water-dust flew and trickled, condensed, down their beards and
faces. It was weird, Brown told me. Every individual man of them felt
as though he were adrift alone in a boat, haunted by an almost
imperceptible suspicion of sighing, muttering ghosts. "Throw me out,
would you? But I would know where I was," mumbled Cornelius surlily.
"I've lived many years here." "Not long enough to see through a fog like
this," Brown said, lolling back with his arm swinging to and fro on the
useless tiller. "Yes. Long enough for that," snarled Cornelius. "That's
very useful," commented Brown. "Am I to believe you could find that
backway you spoke of blindfold, like this?" Cornelius grunted. "Are you
too tired to row?" he asked after a silence. "No, by God!" shouted Brown
suddenly. "Out with your oars there." There was a great knocking in
the fog, which after a while settled into a regular grind of invisible
sweeps against invisible thole-pins. Otherwise nothing was changed, and
but for the slight splash of a dipped blade it was like rowing a balloon
car in a cloud, said Brown. Thereafter Cornelius did not open his lips
except to ask querulously for somebody to bale out his canoe, which
was towing behind the long-boat. Gradually the fog whitened and became
luminous ahead. To the left Brown saw a darkness as though he had been
looking at the back of the departing night. All at once a big bough
covered with leaves appeared above his head, and ends of twigs, dripping
and still, curved slenderly close alongside. Cornelius, without a word,
took the tiller from his hand.'

'I don't think they spoke together again. The boat entered a narrow
by-channel, where it was pushed by the oar-blades set into crumbling
banks, and there was a gloom as if enormous black wings had been
outspread above the mist that filled its depth to the summits of the
trees. The branches overhead showered big drops through the gloomy fog.
At a mutter from Cornelius, Brown ordered his men to load. "I'll
give you a chance to get even with them before we're done, you dismal
cripples, you," he said to his gang. "Mind you don't throw it away--you
hounds." Low growls answered that speech. Cornelius showed much fussy
concern for the safety of his canoe.

'Meantime Tamb' Itam had reached the end of his journey. The fog had
delayed him a little, but he had paddled steadily, keeping in touch with
the south bank. By-and-by daylight came like a glow in a ground glass
globe. The shores made on each side of the river a dark smudge, in which
one could detect hints of columnar forms and shadows of twisted branches
high up. The mist was still thick on the water, but a good watch was
being kept, for as Iamb' Itam approached the camp the figures of two men
emerged out of the white vapour, and voices spoke to him boisterously.
He answered, and presently a canoe lay alongside, and he exchanged news
with the paddlers. All was well. The trouble was over. Then the men in
the canoe let go their grip on the side of his dug-out and incontinently
fell out of sight. He pursued his way till he heard voices coming to him
quietly over the water, and saw, under the now lifting, swirling mist,
the glow of many little fires burning on a sandy stretch, backed by
lofty thin timber and bushes. There again a look-out was kept, for he
was challenged. He shouted his name as the two last sweeps of his paddle
ran his canoe up on the strand. It was a big camp. Men crouched in many
little knots under a subdued murmur of early morning talk. Many thin
threads of smoke curled slowly on the white mist. Little shelters,
elevated above the ground, had been built for the chiefs. Muskets were
stacked in small pyramids, and long spears were stuck singly into the
sand near the fires.

'Tamb' Itam, assuming an air of importance, demanded to be led to Dain
Waris. He found the friend of his white lord lying on a raised couch
made of bamboo, and sheltered by a sort of shed of sticks covered with
mats. Dain Waris was awake, and a bright fire was burning before his
sleeping-place, which resembled a rude shrine. The only son of nakhoda
Doramin answered his greeting kindly. Tamb' Itam began by handing him
the ring which vouched for the truth of the messenger's words. Dain
Waris, reclining on his elbow, bade him speak and tell all the news.
Beginning with the consecrated formula, "The news is good," Tamb' Itam
delivered Jim's own words. The white men, deputing with the consent of
all the chiefs, were to be allowed to pass down the river. In answer to
a question or two Tamb' Itam then reported the proceedings of the last
council. Dain Waris listened attentively to the end, toying with the
ring which ultimately he slipped on the forefinger of his right hand.
After hearing all he had to say he dismissed Tamb' Itam to have food
and rest. Orders for the return in the afternoon were given immediately.
Afterwards Dain Waris lay down again, open-eyed, while his personal
attendants were preparing his food at the fire, by which Tamb' Itam also
sat talking to the men who lounged up to hear the latest intelligence
from the town. The sun was eating up the mist. A good watch was kept
upon the reach of the main stream where the boat of the whites was
expected to appear every moment.

'It was then that Brown took his revenge upon the world which, after
twenty years of contemptuous and reckless bullying, refused him the
tribute of a common robber's success. It was an act of cold-blooded
ferocity, and it consoled him on his deathbed like a memory of an
indomitable defiance. Stealthily he landed his men on the other side
of the island opposite to the Bugis camp, and led them across. After a
short but quite silent scuffle, Cornelius, who had tried to slink away
at the moment of landing, resigned himself to show the way where the
undergrowth was most sparse. Brown held both his skinny hands together
behind his back in the grip of one vast fist, and now and then impelled
him forward with a fierce push. Cornelius remained as mute as a fish,
abject but faithful to his purpose, whose accomplishment loomed before
him dimly. At the edge of the patch of forest Brown's men spread
themselves out in cover and waited. The camp was plain from end to end
before their eyes, and no one looked their way. Nobody even dreamed that
the white men could have any knowledge of the narrow channel at the back
of the island. When he judged the moment come, Brown yelled, "Let them
have it," and fourteen shots rang out like one.

'Tamb' Itam told me the surprise was so great that, except for those who
fell dead or wounded, not a soul of them moved for quite an appreciable
time after the first discharge. Then a man screamed, and after that
scream a great yell of amazement and fear went up from all the throats.
A blind panic drove these men in a surging swaying mob to and fro along
the shore like a herd of cattle afraid of the water. Some few jumped
into the river then, but most of them did so only after the last
discharge. Three times Brown's men fired into the ruck, Brown, the only
one in view, cursing and yelling, "Aim low! aim low!"

'Tamb' Itam says that, as for him, he understood at the first volley
what had happened. Though untouched he fell down and lay as if dead,
but with his eyes open. At the sound of the first shots Dain Waris,
reclining on the couch, jumped up and ran out upon the open shore, just
in time to receive a bullet in his forehead at the second discharge.
Tamb' Itam saw him fling his arms wide open before he fell. Then, he
says, a great fear came upon him--not before. The white men retired as
they had come--unseen.

'Thus Brown balanced his account with the evil fortune. Notice that even
in this awful outbreak there is a superiority as of a man who carries
right--the abstract thing--within the envelope of his common desires.
It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a
retribution--a demonstration of some obscure and awful attribute of our
nature which, I am afraid, is not so very far under the surface as we
like to think.

'Afterwards the whites depart unseen by Tamb' Itam, and seem to vanish
from before men's eyes altogether; and the schooner, too, vanishes after
the manner of stolen goods. But a story is told of a white long-boat
picked up a month later in the Indian Ocean by a cargo steamer. Two
parched, yellow, glassy-eyed, whispering skeletons in her recognised
the authority of a third, who declared that his name was Brown. His
schooner, he reported, bound south with a cargo of Java sugar, had
sprung a bad leak and sank under his feet. He and his companions were
the survivors of a crew of six. The two died on board the steamer which
rescued them. Brown lived to be seen by me, and I can testify that he
had played his part to the last.

'It seems, however, that in going away they had neglected to cast off
Cornelius's canoe. Cornelius himself Brown had let go at the beginning
of the shooting, with a kick for a parting benediction. Tamb' Itam,
after arising from amongst the dead, saw the Nazarene running up and
down the shore amongst the corpses and the expiring fires. He uttered
little cries. Suddenly he rushed to the water, and made frantic efforts
to get one of the Bugis boats into the water. "Afterwards, till he had
seen me," related Tamb' Itam, "he stood looking at the heavy canoe and
scratching his head." "What became of him?" I asked. Tamb' Itam, staring
hard at me, made an expressive gesture with his right arm. "Twice I
struck, Tuan," he said. "When he beheld me approaching he cast himself
violently on the ground and made a great outcry, kicking. He screeched
like a frightened hen till he felt the point; then he was still, and lay
staring at me while his life went out of his eyes."

'This done, Tamb' Itam did not tarry. He understood the importance of
being the first with the awful news at the fort. There were, of course,
many survivors of Dain Waris's party; but in the extremity of panic some
had swum across the river, others had bolted into the bush. The fact is
that they did not know really who struck that blow--whether more white
robbers were not coming, whether they had not already got hold of
the whole land. They imagined themselves to be the victims of a vast
treachery, and utterly doomed to destruction. It is said that some small
parties did not come in till three days afterwards. However, a few tried
to make their way back to Patusan at once, and one of the canoes that
were patrolling the river that morning was in sight of the camp at
the very moment of the attack. It is true that at first the men in her
leaped overboard and swam to the opposite bank, but afterwards they
returned to their boat and started fearfully up-stream. Of these Tamb'
Itam had an hour's advance.''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.

'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.

'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.

'"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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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."

'"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."

'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.

'"Ah! but I shall hold thee thus," she cried. . . . "Thou art mine!"

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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!

'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.

'"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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.'
Chapters 40-45
As Brown tells his story to Marlow, Marlow writes that he is struck by his impression of "an undisguised ruthlessness of purpose, a strange vengeful attitude towards his own past, and a blind belief in the righteousness of his will against all mankind" . In the battle, Brown was almost paralyzed by fear. The numbers were 200 to one. Fear among the people, however, had also begun to unravel the social fabric. One of Brown's men is shot down, so Brown shoots one of the Bugis three times in the stomach. Then, sounds of joy lift in the air. Cornelius tells Brown that Jim has returned, not afraid of anything. When Brown sees Jim, he sees a man in European clothes, all in white, with a helmet. The two meet near the very spot where Jim had taken "the second desperate leap of his life--the leap that landed him into the life of Patusan, into the trust, the love, the confidence of the people" . Brown hates Jim on sight--for his youth and his assurance, his self-possession, his power and neatness. They converse, and Brown yells to him that it was hunger that had driven him to Patusan. Why had Jim come? The conversation strikes Marlow as a duel, and as if Brown, like a great man, had discovered Jim's weakest spot. He says, "if it came to saving one's life in the dark, one didn't care who else went--three, thirty, three hundred people" . Jim says nothing in response, and he is struck by "their common blood, an assumption of common experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge that was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts" . With that, Jim turns away, telling Brown he will have a clear road or a clear fight . The story now continues from Tamb' Itam's point of view. He describes the shock of Jim insisting that Dain Waris lead. Tamb' Itam is given the duty of sending word to Dain Waris to let Brown and his men pass. Jim includes Stein's silver ring as a sign of good faith and, at the same time, he sends Brown a note with Cornelius as messenger. The note says, "You get the clear road" . But, upon delivering the note, Cornelius remains with Brown and tells him that Dain Waris's party is downriver and lying in wait to lay ambush on him as they pass. Brown feels betrayed yet, strangely enough, he doesn't seem to believe it. To be safe, he takes the creek he had noticed upon his first arrival. Through the fog, he takes Cornelius with him in the longboat. After Tamb' Itam approaches Dain Waris's camp and delivers the message with the ring, saying that all is well and that the trouble has passed, Dain Waris slips the ring onto the forefinger of his right hand. Brown's men land nearby and, though Cornelius tries to get away, force him to lead the way to the camp. No one had imagined that the white men would know of the creek. Fourteen shots ring out, and Dain Waris jumps up, running to the open shore. There, Tamb' Itam sees a bullet hit Darin Waris's forehead, and a great fear falls upon him. The white men disappear. Tamb' Itam sees Cornelius and shoots him twice, watching him die. He then hurries back to the town, knowing that it is important that he be the first bearer of the news. When he arrives, the town is festive. He seeks out the girl and reports what has happened. They go to find Jim, and he tells Jim that it is not safe for him to go out amongst the people. This is when Jim understands that it is all over: "the work of his own hands, had fallen in ruins upon his head" . Marlow believes it was then that Jim had tried to write to someone. He says to Jewel, "I have no life" . The girl insists that either he should fight, or they should run away. But he ignores her. Dain Waris's body is brought to Doramin, and as Doramin sees the wound in the forehead and then the ring on his son's forefinger, he begins to cry in fury. Jim walks to meet him: "There is nothing to fight for" . He tells Doramin that he has come ready and unarmed, and that is when Doramin shoots him through the chest. Jim, with a proud and unflinching look, falls dead. The story concludes with Jewel in Stein's home, "leading a sort of soundless, inert life" . Stein has grown old and sorrowful. He feels himself preparing to leave "all this," and he "waves his hand sadly at his butterflies" .
When Brown and Jim finally meet, Brown expresses hatred.  This hatred is, on some level, understandable.  He hates the world for never having given him the opportunity or the "clean slate" that Jim had been given.  When Brown and Jim face each other, each sees in the other a vision of what might have been.  The moment is one of recognition. Brown, the reader can surmise from subtle hints in the narrative, is a quick man.  He is charismatic enough to be a leader, albeit of an outcast group.  Still, his eye sees the hidden creek and, in the way that a great man senses another man's greatest weakness, Brown hits Jim in his weak spot.  He rouses in their interaction a sense of challenge.  Jim, now the embodiment of a mythical romantic ideal, begins to collapse.  The reason is less from a worry that Brown knows who Jim than the realization  that Jim will never be able to escape his moment of weakness on the Patna: his choice is part of his character, and his history is an integral part of his personality.  This history is not knowledge that is external to him, but something that has become deeply seated in his being.  Brown is a personification of that hidden and rejected self-knowledge. Jim likewise recognizes that Brown is a man who has potential or "Ability in the abstract." In an attempt to pass along to him an opportunity in the same generous spirit with which Stein and Marlow had aided him, Jim gives Brown "the clear road"--not quite a clean slate, but a chance to achieve his goals.  This is an opportunity for Brown, though it is not nearly of the same quality as the one that had been given to Jim, because the clear road does not promise a realization of the romantic ideal, the achievement of the dreams of a life of glory and honor.  Instead, it is an opportunity for Brown to persist in his merely Darwinian-style struggle to survive.  The lesser opportunity here, however, is perhaps not so much a result of individual potential and character as it is a product of fortune or chance. The tragic conclusion ensues in a fog of mistrust.  Cornelius presses Brown to see the possibility of betrayal, though there is something in Brown that recognizes "that there could be no treachery intended" .  Brown is an astute judge of character.  Still, in the end, he acts mistrustful all the same, choosing to be retaliatory and violent.  These actions do more to reveal the true nature of his character.  Up the creek, and in secret, he wreaks havoc and death among Dain Waris's camp, and then escapes quickly. We again meet fairly clear evidence of Brown's character, should the story be true, that he is found at sea in a lifeboat telling the same story that the Patna crew had told their rescuers: the ship had sunk beneath their feet.  The irony in this tale, however, is that Jim had been one of them, as well as "one of us."  Can Jim exorcise from himself the negative spirit that persists in Brown?  The ambiguity of character suggests that all men are mixtures of potential characters: the romantic, the hopeless, the corrupt, and the cowardly.  "One of us" can refer to being one more such complex being within the company of all men. As for Jim's fate, Dain Waris's death extinguishes the flame that had charmed the life of Patusan.  This parallel to Stein's best friend being assassinated is obvious, though in Jim's case, the death comes out of a failure of judgment on his part.  The ring, signifying the promise of good will from Stein to Doramin, becomes a symbol of betrayal.  Additionally, the death causes Jim's reputation and secure place in Patusan society to begin to crumble.  He has no place in the world beyond, and now that his work in Patusan is finished, there is nowhere for him to go, except to be extinguished himself. Therefore, as the reader recalls the vision of Stein blowing out a flaming match with the idea that all life is fleeting, Jim is compelled to do what is logically demanded at this climax.  He cannot fight in the way Brown had--struggling for his life--because to do so would liken him further to Brown.  Instead, he leaps in the direction of his fate.  He does not fight it. Jewel, representing the love that the community had felt for Jim and the delight of opportunity he had known, is discarded.  His final atonement requires a clean break.  Jim goes to meet Doramin with a calm face, in the same way that he had arrived, in the face of possible assault.  Here, the assault is certain, and Jim dies in a manner that atones for his past failure at sea.  This time, he goes down with the iron ship as it sinks.  He does not run.  He refuses to leap for a lifeboat to share with Jewel and Tamb' Itam.  Instead he remains--as George had remained--aboard, to die. The native audience looks at Jim's body, as the Muslim pilgrims had looked upon George's, with curiosity and fascination.  The mystery man of Patusan is brought to an end.  Jim is, after all, a man who dies, in spite of the myths of his immortality.  Nevertheless, in true Conradian fashion and poetic tradition, Jim lives on through his show of action.  He remains committed to his ideal and takes responsibility for what he has done and, in this way, Marlow finishes his story.  This man's story is worth finishing.  The inquiry into Jim's soul has been mysterious but it also has been fruitful, revelatory, and illustrative of what is human. The novel concludes with a final view of an aging Stein and a broken, mute Jewel.  The ring has been lost, and there is no one to inherit what Stein has built .  For Stein, the romantic tradition comes to an end.  As his hands wave at the butterflies beneath the glass, we sense that Stein, Jewel, the butterflies, everyone, all etherized in their places, will soon disintegrate into dust.