Talbot Mundy

“ For a while after that the heavy breathing and the labouring at the oars went on in silence; the Somali who rowed stroke had only one foot braced against the stretcher, its big toe protruded up above it, and it moved—once towards him, once away again—with each strain at the oar; thirty times between each revolution of the light the stretcher creaked, and the toe jerked forward and back again. If it were thirty-one times, or twenty-nine times, the universe was wrong, and Stanley was ill at ease. That timing of the toe became more important than direction, even. ”

“ The revolver bubbled downwards in a splurge of phosphorus, and the shark rolled lazily, and dived after it, belly-upwards—eighteen feet of black, fire-dripping, hungry cruelty.
“Give way there!” shouted Stanley, beside himself now with fear, and something that was worse than fear. “Damn you, row!”
He had no revolver now to point, but he shook his fists at them; and the stroke man suddenly unshipped his oar and thrust at him, and sent him sprawling on the seat again. The other shark swept nearer silently. ”

“ He would die sooner! He would dive down among the sharks before they caught him! With the foolish, childish instinct of a man hard-gripped by fear, he began to pull his boots off.
Then another thought occurred to him. He sprang forward and sat down on the stroke man's thwart, and seized his oar. The man resisted, and Stanley kicked and pushed him away towards the stern. After that, he set the pace himself and made it a rouser—rowing until the veins swelled on his temples, and his breath came in noisy gasps, and his head grew giddy with the heat and sweat and effort. ”

“ The Somalis seized him, and carried him, protesting, up the steps. It was old Jim Bates, the lighthouse-keeper; and Stanley flushed from head to foot. Where there had been no white man to see his shame, he had suffered the indignity of being mastered by unchristian savages without a murmur, He wilted now, though, and spluttered indignation. “Is this your doing?” he demanded. “What in hell d'you mean by——”
“That'll do!” said the lighthouse-keeper, lowering the light. ”

“ A man of pride now—pride of Empire—pride of decency—pride in his own word—preacher of pride and cleanliness to new recruits—straight-backed and polished as a service cleaning-rod.
But the desolation of the Twelve Apostles, as those God-forgotten Red-Sea rocks are named, had slipped into his soul. Even the British sergeant must be busy, unless he is to lose that indefinable but absolutely certain regimental grip that tightens up his moral fibre while it trains his muscles. There was nothing here to watch but fishes and the outlines of the eleven other hell-invented crags. ”

“ The answer to that's easy, sergeant. I keep busy. It's perfectly obvious why you men don't enjoy life on the island—you lie on your cots all day, and smoke and quarrel until you're peeved all to pieces—any fool could explain that! What is puzzling is how the lighthouse-keeper enjoys himself so much! He simply loves his job! ”

“ Almost incessantly the steamer-lights seemed to pop up on the skyline—coming and going up and down the hell-hot gateway of the East.
“Frenchies,” said a voice beside him—“Dutchmen—Germans—Roosians—Eyetalians—Norwegians—English—they're maybe half o' them English. They make us from the north or south, as the case may be, and steer wide. “Hum dekta hai!” as the lascars say. “I'm on the watch!”
“What the hell do they care?” growled Stanley. And Jim Bates walked once around the platform, and pulled his watch out and checked off a revolution before he answered him. ”

“ But Stanley, who had tried once to make friends with the lighthouse-keeper, shook his head. “He's too ignorant to understand, sir,” he answered.
“He understands the natives well enough,” answered Brasenose. “Have you noticed how he's tamed his Somali assistants? A man who can tame Somalis isn't ignorant—he's wise.” ”

“ They wound on and on up the narrowing spiral—past a clean-swept sleeping-room, through which the shaft of the revolving lantern passed—past a kitchen and a living-room, with indicators in them, so that the man in charge might watch the revolutions of the light even while he cooked and ate—past a store-room, and an oil-room, and another engine-room—up on to an iron-railed platform round the outside of the light. ”

“ The Somalis hustled the unwilling Stanley up the path behind him; he struggled, and the sweat on his wrists made them slippery, so that he almost broke away. Then they pulled their loin-cloths off, and twisted them like tourniquets around his elbows, and Stanley yelled aloud with the pain of it. But Jim Bates never once looked round. ”

“ By the time that he had insulted him sufficiently—with caustic service-comment on his method of maintaining discipline—he had worked himself into a frame of mind that looked on suicide as foolish only because it deprived the dead man of his power for harm. ”

“ Ten minutes later still, while Second-lieutenant Brasenose—pyjama-clad again and sunburnt—sat writing up his daily official log, a knock came at his door; and it was followed by the grizzled, wrinkled face of the lighthouse-keeper, silhouetted in the lamplight. “Has any one got leave of absence?” he demanded.
“Yes. Sergeant Stanley has—and four boys. I was just writing in the log here that the climate and conditions seem to be very trying to the men; I told Stanley he might go shark-fishing, to try and get rid of his grouch. If that's a success, I shall try to get the men interested too.” ”