Tono Bungay

A day or so after we had got to work upon the quap I found myself so sleepless and miserable that the ship became unendurable.  Just before the rush of sunrise I borrowed Pollack’s gun, walked down the planks, clambered over the quap heaps and prowled along the beach.  I went perhaps a mile and a half that day and some distance beyond the ruins of the old station.  I became interested in the desolation about me, and found when I returned that I was able to sleep for nearly an hour.  It was delightful to have been alone for so long,—­no captain, no Pollack, no one.  Accordingly I repeated this expedition the next morning and the next until it became a custom with me.  There was little for me to do once the digging and wheeling was organised, and so these prowlings of mine grew longer and longer, and presently I began to take food with me.

I pushed these walks far beyond the area desolated by the quap.  On the edges of that was first a zone of stunted vegetation, then a sort of swampy jungle that was difficult to penetrate, and then the beginnings of the forest, a scene of huge tree stems and tangled creeper ropes and roots mingled with oozy mud.  Here I used to loaf in a state between botanising and reverie—­always very anxious to know what was up above in the sunlight—­and here it was I murdered a man.

It was the most unmeaning and purposeless murder imaginable.  Even as I write down its well-remembered particulars there comes again the sense of its strangeness, its pointlessness, its incompatibility with any of the neat and definite theories people hold about life and the meaning of the world.  I did this thing and I want to tell of my doing it, but why I did it and particularly why I should be held responsible for it I cannot explain.

That morning I had come upon a track in the forest, and it had occurred to me as a disagreeable idea that this was a human pathway.  I didn’t want to come upon any human beings.  The less our expedition saw of the African population the better for its prospects.  Thus far we had been singularly free from native pestering.  So I turned back and was making my way over mud and roots and dead fronds and petals scattered from the green world above when abruptly I saw my victim.

I became aware of him perhaps forty feet off standing quite still and regarding me.

He wasn’t by any means a pretty figure.  He was very black and naked except for a dirty loin-cloth, his legs were ill-shaped and his toes spread wide and the upper edge of his cloth and a girdle of string cut his clumsy abdomen into folds.  His forehead was low, his nose very flat and his lower lip swollen and purplish-red.  His hair was short and fuzzy, and about his neck was a string and a little purse of skin.  He carried a musket, and a powder-flask was stuck in his girdle.  It was a curious confrontation.  There opposed to him stood I, a little soiled, perhaps, but still a rather elaborately civilised human being, born, bred and trained in a vague tradition.  In my hand was an unaccustomed gun.  And each of us was essentially a teeming, vivid brain, tensely excited by the encounter, quite unaware of the other’s mental content or what to do with him.

He stepped back a pace or so, stumbled and turned to run.

“Stop,” I cried; “stop, you fool!” and started to run after him, shouting such things in English.  But I was no match for him over the roots and mud.

I had a preposterous idea.  “He mustn’t get away and tell them!”

And with that instantly I brought both feet together, raised my gun, aimed quite coolly, drew the trigger carefully and shot him neatly in the back.

I saw, and saw with a leap of pure exaltation, the smash of my bullet between his shoulder blades.  “Got him,” said I, dropping my gun and down he flopped and died without a groan.  “By Jove!” I cried with note of surprise, “I’ve killed him!” I looked about me and then went forward cautiously, in a mood between curiosity and astonishment, to look at this man whose soul I had flung so unceremoniously out of our common world.  I went to him, not as one goes to something one has made or done, but as one approaches something found.

He was frightfully smashed out in front; he must have died in the instant.  I stooped and raised him by his shoulder and realised that.  I dropped him, and stood about and peered about me through the trees.  “My word!” I said.  He was the second dead human being—­apart, I mean, from surgical properties and mummies and common shows of that sort—­that I have ever seen.  I stood over him wondering, wondering beyond measure.

A practical idea came into that confusion.  Had any one heard the gun?

I reloaded.

After a time I felt securer, and gave my mind again to the dead I had killed.  What must I do?

It occurred to me that perhaps I ought to bury him.  At any rate, I ought to hide him.  I reflected coolly, and then put my gun within easy reach and dragged him by the arm towards a place where the mud seemed soft, and thrust him in.  His powder-flask slipped from his loin-cloth, and I went back to get it.  Then I pressed him down with the butt of my rifle.

Afterwards this all seemed to me most horrible, but at the time it was entirely a matter-of-fact transaction.  I looked round for any other visible evidence of his fate, looked round as one does when one packs one’s portmanteau in an hotel bedroom.

When I got my bearings, and carefully returned towards the ship.  I had the mood of grave concentration of a boy who has lapsed into poaching.  And the business only began to assume proper proportions for me as I got near the ship, to seem any other kind of thing than the killing of a bird or rabbit.

In the night, however, it took on enormous and portentous forms.  “By God!” I cried suddenly, starting wide awake; “but it was murder!”

I lay after that wide awake, staring at my memories.  In some odd way these visions mixed up with my dream of in my uncle in his despair.  The black body which saw now damaged and partly buried, but which, nevertheless, I no longer felt was dead but acutely alive and perceiving, I mixed up with the ochreous slash under my uncle’s face.  I tried to dismiss this horrible obsession from my mind, but it prevailed over all my efforts.

The next day was utterly black with my sense of that ugly creature’s body.  I am the least superstitious of men, but it drew me.  It drew me back into those thickets to the very place where I had hidden him.

Some evil and detestable beast had been at him, and he lay disinterred.

Methodically I buried his swollen and mangled carcass again, and returned to the ship for another night of dreams.  Next day for all the morning I resisted the impulse to go to him, and played nap with Pollack with my secret gnawing at me, and in the evening started to go and was near benighted.  I never told a soul of them of this thing I had done.

Next day I went early, and he had gone, and there were human footmarks and ugly stains round the muddy hole from which he had been dragged.

I returned to the ship, disconcerted and perplexed.  That day it was the men came aft, with blistered hands and faces, and sullen eyes.  When they proclaimed, through Edwards, their spokesman, “We’ve had enough of this, and we mean it,” I answered very readily, “So have I. Let’s go.”