The Open Boat and Other Stories
The mesquit brush burned long. José threw two gigantic wings of shadow
as he flapped his blanket about him--first across his chest under his
arms, and then around his neck and across his chest again--this time
over his arms, with the end tossed on his right shoulder. A Mexican
thus snugly enveloped can nevertheless free his fighting arm in a
beautifully brisk way, merely shrugging his shoulder as he grabs for
the weapon at his belt. (They always wear their serapes in this manner.)
The firelight smothered the rays which, streaming from a moon as large
as a drum-head, were struggling at the open door. Richardson heard from
the plain the fine, rhythmical trample of the hoofs of hurried horses.
He went to sleep wondering who rode so fast and so late. And in the
deep silence the pale rays of the moon must have prevailed against the
red spears of the fire until the room was slowly flooded to its middle
with a rectangle of silver light.
Richardson was awakened by the sound of a guitar. It was badly
played--in this land of Mexico, from which the romance of the
instrument ascends to us like a perfume. The guitar was groaning and
whining like a badgered soul. A noise of scuffling feet accompanied the
music. Sometimes laughter arose, and often the voices of men saying
bitter things to each other, but always the guitar cried on, the treble
sounding as if some one were beating iron, and the bass humming like
bees. "Damn it--they're having a dance," he muttered, fretfully. He
heard two men quarrelling in short, sharp words, like pistol shots;
they were calling each other worse names than common people know in
other countries. He wondered why the noise was so loud. Raising his
head from his saddle pillow, he saw, with the help of the valiant
moonbeams, a blanket hanging flat against the wall at the further end
of the room. Being of opinion that it concealed a door, and remembering
that Mexican drink made men very drunk, he pulled his revolver closer
to him and prepared for sudden disaster.
Richardson was dreaming of his far and beloved north.
"Well, I would kill him, then!"
"No, you must not!"
"Yes, I will kill him! Listen! I will ask this American beast for his
beautiful pistol and spurs and money and saddle, and if he will not
give them--you will see!"
"But these Americans--they are a strange people. Look out, señor."
Then twenty voices took part in the discussion. They rose in quavering
shrillness, as from men badly drunk. Richardson felt the skin draw
tight around his mouth, and his knee-joints turned to bread. He slowly
came to a sitting posture, glaring at the motionless blanket at the
far end of the room. This stiff and mechanical movement, accomplished
entirely by the muscles of the waist, must have looked like the rising
of a corpse in the wan moonlight, which gave everything a hue of the
grave.
My friend, take my advice and never be executed by a hangman who
doesn't talk the English language. It, or anything that resembles
it, is the most difficult of deaths. The tumultuous emotions of
Richardson's terror destroyed that slow and careful process of thought
by means of which he understood Mexican. Then he used his instinctive
comprehension of the first and universal language, which is tone.
Still, it is disheartening not to be able to understand the detail of
threats against the blood of your body.
Suddenly, the clamour of voices ceased. There was a silence--a silence
of decision. The blanket was flung aside, and the red light of a torch
flared into the room. It was held high by a fat, round-faced Mexican,
whose little snake-like moustache was as black as his eyes, and whose
eyes were black as jet. He was insane with the wild rage of a man
whose liquor is dully burning at his brain. Five or six of his fellows
crowded after him. The guitar, which had been thrummed doggedly during
the time of the high words, now suddenly stopped. They contemplated
each other. Richardson sat very straight and still, his right hand lost
in his blanket. The Mexicans jostled in the light of the torch, their
eyes blinking and glittering.
The fat one posed in the manner of a grandee. Presently his hand
dropped to his belt, and from his lips there spun an epithet--a hideous
word which often foreshadows knife-blows, a word peculiarly of Mexico,
where people have to dig deep to find an insult that has not lost its
savour. The American did not move. He was staring at the fat Mexican
with a strange fixedness of gaze, not fearful, not dauntless, not
anything that could be interpreted. He simply stared.
The fat Mexican must have been disconcerted, for he continued to
pose as a grandee, with more and more sublimity, until it would have
been easy for him to have fallen over backward. His companions were
swaying very drunkenly. They still blinked their little beady eyes at
Richardson. Ah, well, sirs, here was a mystery! At the approach of
their menacing company, why did not this American cry out and turn
pale, or run, or pray them mercy? The animal merely sat still, and
stared, and waited for them to begin. Well, evidently he was a great
fighter! Or perhaps he was an idiot? Indeed, this was an embarrassing
situation, for who was going forward to discover whether he was a great
fighter or an idiot?
To Richardson, whose nerves were tingling and twitching like live
wires, and whose heart jolted inside him, this pause was a long horror;
and for these men, who could so frighten him, there began to swell in
him a fierce hatred--a hatred that made him long to be capable of
fighting all of them, a hatred that made him capable of fighting all
of them. A 44-calibre revolver can make a hole large enough for little
boys to shoot marbles through; and there was a certain fat Mexican with
a moustache like a snake who came extremely near to have eaten his last
tomale merely because he frightened a man too much.
José had slept the first part of the night in his fashion, his body
hunched into a heap, his legs crooked, his head touching his knees.
Shadows had obscured him from the sight of the invaders. At this point
he arose, and began to prowl quakingly over toward Richardson, as if he
meant to hide behind him.
Of a sudden the fat Mexican gave a howl of glee. José had come within
the torch's circle of light. With roars of ferocity the whole group of
Mexicans pounced on the American's servant. He shrank shuddering away
from them, beseeching by every device of word and gesture. They pushed
him this way and that. They beat him with their fists. They stung him
with their curses. As he grovelled on his knees, the fat Mexican took
him by the throat and said--"I am going to kill you!" And continually
they turned their eyes to see if they were to succeed in causing the
initial demonstration by the American. But he looked on impassively.
Under the blanket his fingers were clenched, as iron, upon the handle
of his revolver.
Here suddenly two brilliant clashing chords from the guitar were
heard, and a woman's voice, full of laughter and confidence, cried
from without--"Hello! hello! Where are you?" The lurching company of
Mexicans instantly paused and looked at the ground. One said, as he
stood with his legs wide apart in order to balance himself--"It is the
girls. They have come!" He screamed in answer to the question of the
woman--"Here!" And without waiting he started on a pilgrimage toward
the blanket-covered door. One could now hear a number of female voices
giggling and chattering.
Two other Mexicans said--"Yes, it is the girls! Yes!" They also started
quietly away. Even the fat Mexican's ferocity seemed to be affected.
He looked uncertainly at the still immovable American. Two of his
friends grasped him gaily--"Come, the girls are here! Come!" He cast
another glower at Richardson. "But this----," he began. Laughing, his
comrades hustled him toward the door. On its threshold, and holding
back the blanket, with one hand, he turned his yellow face with a last
challenging glare toward the American. José, bewailing his state in
little sobs of utter despair and woe, crept to Richardson and huddled
near his knee. Then the cries of the Mexicans meeting the girls were
heard, and the guitar burst out in joyous humming.
The moon clouded, and but a faint square of light fell through the
open main door of the house. The coals of the fire were silent, save
for occasional sputters. Richardson did not change his position. He
remained staring at the blanket which hid the strategic door in the far
end. At his knees José was arguing, in a low, aggrieved tone, with the
saints. Without, the Mexicans laughed and danced, and--it would appear
from the sound--drank more.
In the stillness and the night Richardson sat wondering if some
serpent-like Mexican were sliding towards him in the darkness, and if
the first thing he knew of it would be the deadly sting of a knife.
"Sssh," he whispered, to José. He drew his revolver from under the
blanket, and held it on his leg. The blanket over the door fascinated
him. It was a vague form, black and unmoving. Through the opening it
shielded were to come, probably, threats, death. Sometimes he thought
he saw it move. As grim white sheets, the black and silver of coffins,
all the panoply of death, affect us, because of that which they hide,
so this blanket, dangling before a hole in an adobe wall, was to
Richardson a horrible emblem, and a horrible thing in itself. In his
present mood he could not have been brought to touch it with his finger.
The celebrating Mexicans occasionally howled in song. The guitarist
played with speed and enthusiasm. Richardson longed to run. But in this
vibrating and threatening gloom his terror convinced him that a move
on his part would be a signal for the pounce of death. José, crouching
abjectly, mumbled now and again. Slowly, and ponderous as stars, the
minutes went.
Suddenly Richardson thrilled and started. His breath for a moment left
him. In sleep his nerveless fingers had allowed his revolver to fall
and clang upon the hard floor. He grabbed it up hastily, and his glance
swept apprehensively over the room. A chill blue light of dawn was
in the place. Every outline was slowly growing; detail was following
detail. The dread blanket did not move. The riotous company had gone
or fallen silent. He felt the effect of this cold dawn in his blood.
The candour of breaking day brought his nerve. He touched José. "Come,"
he said. His servant lifted his lined yellow face, and comprehended.
Richardson buckled on his spurs and strode up; José obediently lifted
the two great saddles. Richardson held two bridles and a blanket on his
left arm; in his right hand he had his revolver. They sneaked toward
the door.
The man who said that spurs jingled was insane. Spurs have a mellow
clash--clash--clash. Walking in spurs--notably Mexican spurs--you
remind yourself vaguely of a telegraphic linesman. Richardson was
inexpressibly shocked when he came to walk. He sounded to himself like
a pair of cymbals. He would have known of this if he had reflected; but
then, he was escaping, not reflecting. He made a gesture of despair,
and from under the two saddles José tried to make one of hopeless
horror. Richardson stooped, and with shaking fingers unfastened the
spurs. Taking them in his left hand, he picked up his revolver, and
they slunk on toward the door. On the threshold he looked back. In a
corner he saw, watching him with large eyes, the Indian man and woman
who had been his hosts. Throughout the night they had made no sign, and
now they neither spoke nor moved. Yet Richardson thought he detected
meek satisfaction at his departure.
The street was still and deserted. In the eastern sky there was a
lemon-coloured patch. José had picketed the horses at the side of the