



Produced by Dianne Bean





THE EBB-TIDE

A TRIO AND QUARTETTE


By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyde Osbourne



          'There is a tide in the affairs of men.'




Part I.



Chapter 1. NIGHT ON THE BEACH

Throughout the island world of the Pacific, scattered men of many
European races and from almost every grade of society carry activity and
disseminate disease. Some prosper, some vegetate. Some have mounted the
steps of thrones and owned islands and navies. Others again must marry
for a livelihood; a strapping, merry, chocolate- dame supports
them in sheer idleness; and, dressed like natives, but still retaining
some foreign element of gait or attitude, still perhaps with some relic
(such as a single eye-glass) of the officer and gentleman, they sprawl
in palm-leaf verandahs and entertain an island audience with memoirs of
the music-hall. And there are still others, less pliable, less capable,
less fortunate, perhaps less base, who continue, even in these isles of
plenty, to lack bread.

At the far end of the town of Papeete, three such men were seated on the
beach under a purao tree.

It was late. Long ago the band had broken up and marched musically home,
a motley troop of men and women, merchant clerks and navy officers,
dancing in its wake, arms about waist and crowned with garlands. Long
ago darkness and silence had gone from house to house about the tiny
pagan city. Only the street lamps shone on, making a glow-worm halo in
the umbrageous alleys or drawing a tremulous image on the waters of the
port. A sound of snoring ran among the piles of lumber by the Government
pier. It was wafted ashore from the graceful clipper-bottomed schooners,
where they lay moored close in like dinghies, and their crews were
stretched upon the deck under the open sky or huddled in a rude tent
amidst the disorder of merchandise.

But the men under the purao had no thought of sleep. The same
temperature in England would have passed without remark in summer; but
it was bitter cold for the South Seas. Inanimate nature knew it, and the
bottle of cocoanut oil stood frozen in every bird-cage house about
the island; and the men knew it, and shivered. They wore flimsy cotton
clothes, the same they had sweated in by day and run the gauntlet of the
tropic showers; and to complete their evil case, they had no breakfast
to mention, less dinner, and no supper at all.

In the telling South Sea phrase, these three men were ON THE BEACH.
Common calamity had brought them acquainted, as the three most miserable
English-speaking creatures in Tahiti; and beyond their misery, they knew
next to nothing of each other, not even their true names. For each had
made a long apprenticeship in going downward; and each, at some stage of
the descent, had been shamed into the adoption of an alias. And yet not
one of them had figured in a court of justice; two were men of kindly
virtues; and one, as he sat and shivered under the purao, had a tattered
Virgil in his pocket.

Certainly, if money could have been raised upon the book, Robert Herrick
would long ago have sacrificed that last possession; but the demand
for literature, which is so marked a feature in some parts of the South
Seas, extends not so far as the dead tongues; and the Virgil, which he
could not exchange against a meal, had often consoled him in his hunger.
He would study it, as he lay with tightened belt on the floor of the
old calaboose, seeking favourite passages and finding new ones only less
beautiful because they lacked the consecration of remembrance. Or he
would pause on random country walks; sit on the path side, gazing over
the sea on the mountains of Eimeo; and dip into the Aeneid, seeking
sortes. And if the oracle (as is the way of oracles) replied with no
very certain nor encouraging voice, visions of England at least
would throng upon the exile's memory: the busy schoolroom, the green
playing-fields, holidays at home, and the perennial roar of London, and
the fireside, and the white head of his father. For it is the destiny of
those grave, restrained and classic writers, with whom we make enforced
and often painful acquaintanceship at school, to pass into the blood and
become native in the memory; so that a phrase of Virgil speaks not so
much of Mantua or Augustus, but of English places and the student's own
irrevocable youth.

Robert Herrick was the son of an intelligent, active, and ambitious man,
small partner in a considerable London house. Hopes were conceived
of the boy; he was sent to a good school, gained there an Oxford
scholarship, and proceeded in course to the Western University. With all
his talent and taste (and he had much of both) Robert was deficient
in consistency and intellectual manhood, wandered in bypaths of study,
worked at music or at metaphysics when he should have been at Greek, and
took at last a paltry degree. Almost at the same time, the London house
was disastrously wound up; Mr Herrick must begin the world again as
a clerk in a strange office, and Robert relinquish his ambitions and
accept with gratitude a career that he detested and despised. He had
no head for figures, no interest in affairs, detested the constraint of
hours, and despised the aims and the success of merchants. To grow rich
was none of his ambitions; rather to do well. A worse or a more bold
young man would have refused the destiny; perhaps tried his future with
his pen; perhaps enlisted. Robert, more prudent, possibly more timid,
consented to embrace that way of life in which he could most readily
assist his family. But he did so with a mind divided; fled the
neighbourhood of former comrades; and chose, out of several positions
placed at his disposal, a clerkship in New York.

His career thenceforth was one of unbroken shame. He did not drink,
he was exactly honest, he was never rude to his employers, yet was
everywhere discharged. Bringing no interest to his duties, he brought
no attention; his day was a tissue of things neglected and things done
amiss; and from place to place and from town to town, he carried the
character of one thoroughly incompetent. No man can bear the word
applied to him without some flush of colour, as indeed there is
none other that so emphatically slams in a man's face the door
of self-respect. And to Herrick, who was conscious of talents and
acquirements, who looked down upon those humble duties in which he was
found wanting, the pain was the more exquisite. Early in his fall, he
had ceased to be able to make remittances; shortly after, having nothing
but failure to communicate, he ceased writing home; and about a year
before this tale begins, turned suddenly upon the streets of San
Francisco by a vulgar and infuriated German Jew, he had broken the last
bonds of self-respect, and upon a sudden Impulse, changed his name and
invested his last dollar in a passage on the mail brigantine, the City
of Papeete. With what expectation he had trimmed his flight for the
South Seas, Herrick perhaps scarcely knew. Doubtless there were fortunes
to be made in pearl and copra; doubtless others not more gifted than
himself had climbed in the island world to be queen's consorts and
king's ministers. But if Herrick had gone there with any manful purpose,
he would have kept his father's name; the alias betrayed his moral
bankruptcy; he had struck his flag; he entertained no hope to reinstate
himself or help his straitened family; and he came to the islands (where
he knew the climate to be soft, bread cheap, and manners easy) a skulker
from life's battle and his own immediate duty. Failure, he had said, was
his portion; let it be a pleasant failure.

It is fortunately not enough to say 'I will be base.' Herrick continued
in the islands his career of failure; but in the new scene and under the
new name, he suffered no less sharply than before. A place was got, it
was lost in the old style; from the long-suffering of the keepers of
restaurants he fell to more open charity upon the wayside; as time went
on, good nature became weary, and after a repulse or two, Herrick became
shy. There were women enough who would have supported a far worse and a
far uglier man; Herrick never met or never knew them: or if he did both,
some manlier feeling would revolt, and he preferred starvation. Drenched
with rains, broiling by day, shivering by night, a disused and ruinous
prison for a bedroom, his diet begged or pilfered out of rubbish heaps,
his associates two creatures equally outcast with himself, he had
drained for months the cup of penitence. He had known what it was to
be resigned, what it was to break forth in a childish fury of rebellion
against fate, and what it was to sink into the coma of despair. The time
had changed him. He told himself no longer tales of an easy and perhaps
agreeable declension; he read his nature otherwise; he had proved
himself incapable of rising, and he now learned by experience that he
could not stoop to fall. Something that was scarcely pride or strength,
that was perhaps only refinement, withheld him from capitulation; but
he looked on upon his own misfortune with a growing rage, and sometimes
wondered at his patience.

It was now the fourth month completed, and still there was no change
or sign of change. The moon, racing through a world of flying clouds
of every size and shape and density, some black as ink stains, some
delicate as lawn, threw the marvel of her Southern brightness over the
same lovely and detested scene: the island mountains crowned with the
perennial island cloud, the embowered city studded with rare lamps, the
masts in the harbour, the smooth mirror of the lagoon, and the mole of
the barrier reef on which the breakers whitened. The moon shone too,
with bull's-eye sweeps, on his companions; on the stalwart frame of the
American who called himself Brown, and was known to be a master
mariner in some disgrace; and on the dwarfish person, the pale eyes
and toothless smile of a vulgar and bad-hearted cockney clerk. Here was
society for Robert Herrick! The Yankee skipper was a man at least: he
had sterling qualities of tenderness and resolution; he was one whose
hand you could take without a blush. But there was no redeeming grace
about the other, who called himself sometimes Hay and sometimes Tomkins,
and laughed at the discrepancy; who had been employed in every store in
Papeete, for the creature was able in his way; who had been discharged
from each in turn, for he was wholly vile; who had alienated all his old
employers so that they passed him in the street as if he were a dog, and
all his old comrades so that they shunned him as they would a creditor.

Not long before, a ship from Peru had brought an influenza, and it now
raged in the island, and particularly in Papeete. From all round the
purao arose and fell a dismal sound of men coughing, and strangling
as they coughed. The sick natives, with the islander's impatience of a
touch of fever, had crawled from their houses to be cool and, squatting
on the shore or on the beached canoes, painfully expected the new day.
Even as the crowing of cocks goes about the country in the night from
farm to farm, accesses of coughing arose, and spread, and died in
the distance, and sprang up again. Each miserable shiverer caught the
suggestion from his neighbour, was torn for some minutes by that cruel
ecstasy, and left spent and without voice or courage when it passed. If
a man had pity to spend, Papeete beach, in that cold night and in that
infected season, was a place to spend it on. And of all the sufferers,
perhaps the least deserving, but surely the most pitiable, was the
London clerk. He was used to another life, to houses, beds, nursing,
and the dainties of the sickroom; he lay there now, in the cold open,
exposed to the gusting of the wind, and with an empty belly. He was
besides infirm; the disease shook him to the vitals; and his companions
watched his endurance with surprise. A profound commiseration filled
them, and contended with and conquered their abhorrence. The disgust
attendant on so ugly a sickness magnified this dislike; at the same
time, and with more than compensating strength, shame for a sentiment so
inhuman bound them the more straitly to his service; and even the evil
they knew of him swelled their solicitude, for the thought of death is
always the least supportable when it draws near to the merely sensual
and selfish. Sometimes they held him up; sometimes, with mistaken
helpfulness, they beat him between the shoulders; and when the poor
wretch lay back ghastly and spent after a paroxysm of coughing, they
would sometimes peer into his face, doubtfully exploring it for any
mark of life. There is no one but has some virtue: that of the clerk was
courage; and he would make haste to reassure them in a pleasantry not
always decent.

'I'm all right, pals,' he gasped once: 'this is the thing to strengthen
the muscles of the larynx.'

'Well, you take the cake!' cried the captain.

'O, I'm good plucked enough,' pursued the sufferer with a broken
utterance. 'But it do seem bloomin' hard to me, that I should be the
only party down with this form of vice, and the only one to do the funny
business. I think one of you other parties might wake up. Tell a fellow
something.'

'The trouble is we've nothing to tell, my son,' returned the captain.

'I'll tell you, if you like, what I was thinking,' said Herrick.

'Tell us anything,' said the clerk, 'I only want to be reminded that I
ain't dead.'

Herrick took up his parable, lying on his face and speaking slowly and
scarce above his breath, not like a man who has anything to say, but
like one talking against time.

'Well, I was thinking this,' he began: 'I was thinking I lay on Papeete
beach one night--all moon and squalls and fellows coughing--and I was
cold and hungry, and down in the mouth, and was about ninety years of
age, and had spent two hundred and twenty of them on Papeete beach. And
I was thinking I wished I had a ring to rub, or had a fairy godmother,
or could raise Beelzebub. And I was trying to remember how you did it. I
knew you made a ring of skulls, for I had seen that in the Freischutz:
and that you took off your coat and turned up your sleeves, for I had
seen Formes do that when he was playing Kaspar, and you could see (by
the way he went about it) it was a business he had studied; and that you
ought to have something to kick up a smoke and a bad smell, I dare say
a cigar might do, and that you ought to say the Lord's Prayer backwards.
Well, I wondered if I could do that; it seemed rather a feat, you see.
And then I wondered if I would say it forward, and I thought I did.
Well, no sooner had I got to WORLD WITHOUT END, than I saw a man in a
pariu, and with a mat under his arm, come along the beach from the town.
He was rather a hard-favoured old party, and he limped and crippled, and
all the time he kept coughing. At first I didn't cotton to his looks,
I thought, and then I got sorry for the old soul because he coughed so
hard. I remembered that we had some of that cough mixture the American
consul gave the captain for Hay. It never did Hay a ha'porth of service,
but I thought it might do the old gentleman's business for him, and
stood up. "Yorana!" says I. "Yorana!" says he. "Look here," I said,
"I've got some first-rate stuff in a bottle; it'll fix your cough,
savvy? _Haere mai_ and I'll measure you a tablespoonful in the palm of my
hand, for all our plate is at the bankers." So I thought the old party
came up, and the nearer he came, the less I took to him. But I had
passed my word, you see.'

'Wot is this bloomin' drivel?' interrupted the clerk. 'It's like the rot
there is in tracts.'

'It's a story; I used to tell them to the kids at home,' said Herrick.
'If it bores you, I'll drop it.'

'O, cut along!' returned the sick man, irritably. 'It's better than
nothing.'

'Well,' continued Herrick, 'I had no sooner given him the cough mixture
than he seemed to straighten up and change, and I saw he wasn't a
Tahitian after all, but some kind of Arab, and had a long beard on his
chin. "One good turn deserves another," says he. "I am a magician out
of the Arabian Nights, and this mat that I have under my arm is the
original carpet of Mohammed Ben Somebody-or-other. Say the word, and you
can have a cruise upon the carpet." "You don't mean to say this is the
Travelling Carpet?" I cried. "You bet I do," said he. "You've been
to America since last I read the Arabian Nights," said I, a little
suspicious. "I should think so," said he. "Been everywhere. A man with a
carpet like this isn't going to moulder in a semi-detached villa." Well,
that struck me as reasonable. "All right," I said; "and do you mean to
