CHEAP

Ransome said that you might pick up specimens of all the unprettiest

afflictions of body and soul in Herares ten years ago. He also said that

when he saw any particularly miserable bit of human wreckage, white or

brown, adrift on the languid tides of life about the jetty, he always

said without further inquiry, “It’s Henkel’s house you’re looking for.

Turn to the left, and keep on turning to the left. And if God knew what

went on under these trees, He’d have mercy on you. . . . .”

The house was the last house on the last road of the town. You won’t

find it now, for no one would live in it after Henkel, and in a season

or two the forest swamped it as the sea swamps a child’s boat on the

beach. It was a white house in a garden, and after rain the scent of

vanilla and stephanotis rose round it like a fog. The fever rose round

it like a fog, too, and that’s why Henkel got it so cheap. No fever

touched him. He lived there alone with a lot of servants—Indians. And

they were all wrecks, Ransome said, broken down from accident or

disease—wrecks that no one else would employ. He got them very cheap.

When they died he got more.

Henkel was a large, soft, yellowish man. Ransome said, “I don’t mind a

man being large and yellowish, or even soft, in reason, but when he

shines too, I draw the line.” Henkel had thick hands with bent fingers,

and large brown eyes. He was a Hollander Jew, and in that place he stood

apart. For he didn’t drink, or gamble, or fight, or even buy rubber. He

was just a large, peaceful person who bought things cheap.

He was very clever. He always knew the precise moment, the outmost

low-water mark, of a bargain. His house was full of things he’d bought

cheap from wrecked companies or dying men, from the mahogany logs in the

patio to the coils of telegraph wire in the loft. His clothes never

fitted for they belonged to men whom the fever had met on the way up the

Mazzaron, and who had, therefore, no further use for clothes. The only

things Henkel ever paid a fair price for were butterflies.

“I went to his house once,” said Ransome. “Had to. A lame Indian in a

suit of gaudy red-and-white stripes opened the door. I knew that striped

canvas. It was the awnings of the old ‘Lily Grant,’ and I saw along the

seams the smokemarks of the fire that had burnt her inwards out

. . . . . Then the Indian opened the jalousies with a hand like a bundle

of brown twigs, and the light shone through green leaves on the walls of

the room. From ceiling to floor they flashed as if they were jewelled,

only there are no jewels with just that soft bloom of colour. They were

cases full of Henkel’s butterflies.

“The Indian limped out, and Henkel came in. He was limping, too. I

looked at his feet, and I saw that they were in a pair of someone else’s

tan shoes.

“That, and the whiff of the servants’ quarter, made me feel a bit sick.

I wanted to say what I had to say, and get out as quick as I could. But

Henkel would show me his butterflies. Most of us in that place were a

little mad on some point. I was myself. Henkel, he was mad on his

butterflies. He told me the troubles he’d had, getting them from Indians

and negroes, and how his men cheated him. He took it very much to heart,

and snuffled as he spoke. ‘And there’s one I haven’t got,’ he said, ‘one

I’ve heard of, but can’t find, and my lazy hounds of hombres can’t find

it either, it seems. It’s one of the clear-wings—transparent. Here’s a

transparent silver one. But this new one is gold, transparent gold, and

the spots are opaque gold.’ His mouth fairly watered. ‘I tell you, I

will spend anything, anything, to get that gold butterfly. And if the

natives can’t or won’t find it for me, my friend, I’ll send for someone

who can and will.’

“I quite believed him, though I was no friend of his. I didn’t know much

about butterflies, but I guessed that in Paris or London his collection

would be beyond price. But I wasn’t prepared, two months later, for

Scott and his friend. . . . .

“Derek Scott. Ever meet him? A very ordinary kind of young Northerner.

He was only remarkable in having everything a little in excess of his

type—a little squarer in jaw and shoulder, a little longer in nose and

leg, a little keener of eye and slower of tongue. I’d never have looked

at him twice as he landed from the dirty steamer with a lot of tin

boxes, if it hadn’t been that he was hale and sound, with hope in his

eyes. Health and hope, at Herares . . . .

“Then little Daurillac ran up the gangway, laughing. I looked at

him—everyone did—and wondered. And then, to cap the wonder, they two

came up to me with their friendly, confident young faces, and asked for

Henkel’s house.

“‘Turn to the left,’ I said. And then I said, ‘You’ll excuse me, but

what does Henkel want of you?’

“Scott didn’t answer at first, but looked me over with his considering

eyes, and I remembered a collarless shirt and a four days’ beard. But

Daurillac said, ‘He wants butterflies of us, Monsieur. I am an

entomologist, and my friend, he assists me.’ He drew up very straight,

but his eyes were laughing at himself. Then we exchanged names and shook

hands, and I watched them going along the path to Henkel’s . . . . .

“Next day, Scott came down to the jetty. He sat on a stump and stared at

everything. He was ready enough to talk, in his guarded way. Yes, he was

new to the tropics; in some ways they were not what he had expected, but

he was not disappointed. He was here for the novelty, the experience.

But his friend, Louis Daurillac, had been in the Indies, and with some

of Meyer’s men in Burma, after orchids. Louis’ father was a great

naturalist, and Louis was very clever. Yes, Henkel had got hold of him

through Meyer. He wanted someone to find this butterfly for him, this

golden butterfly at the headwaters of the Mazzaron—someone whose name

was yet in the making, someone he could get cheap . . . . . So Louis had

come. He was very keen on it. Henkel was to bear all costs, to supply

food, ammunition, trade-goods, etc., and pay them according to the

number of the new specimens that they found. ‘So you see,’ said Scott,

with his clean smile, ‘Louis and I can’t lose by it.’ . . . .

“We talked a bit more, and then young Scott said to me, suddenly,

‘Henkel has everything ready, and we start in the morning. You seem to

be the only white man about here. Come and see us off, will you?’ I said

yes; afterwards it struck me as curious that he should not have counted

Henkel as a white man. He laughed, and apologised for the touch of

sentiment. ‘It’s like plunging head first into a very deep sea,’ he

explained, ‘and one likes to have someone on the shore. You’ll be here

when we come back?’ And I said, ‘Yes, either unloading on the jetty or

in the new cemetery by the canal.’ But he didn’t smile. His light

northern eyes were gravely considering this land, where life was held on

a short lease, and he looked at me as if he were sorry for me.

“I saw them off the next day. There were six or eight men of Henkel’s,

loaded with food and trade-goods, and I saw that two of them were

sickening where they stood. I looked in Daurillac’s brilliant young

face, and I hadn’t the courage to say anything but ‘Have you plenty of

quinine?’ He tapped a big tin case, and I nodded. ‘And what are you

taking the Indianos?’ I asked.

“He fairly bubbled over with laughter. ‘You would never guess, Monsieur,

but we take clocks, little American clocks. The Indianos of the Mazzaron

desire nothing but little clocks, they like the tick.’

“Their men had turned down one of the jungle paths. They shook hands

with me, and Scott met my eyes with his grave smile. ‘Just drawing

breath for the plunge,’ he said, with a glance at the forest beyond the

last white roof. Daurillac slipped his arm through Scott’s, and drew him

after their slow-going hombres. At the bend of the path they turned and

waved to me; Scott with a quick lift of the hand. But little Daurillac

swept off his hat and stood half-turned for a minute; the sun splashed

on his dark head, on his Frenchified belt and puttees, on his white

breeches, and on an outrageous pink shirt Henkel seemed to have supplied

him with. He looked suddenly brilliant and insubstantial, a light figure

poised on the edge of the dark. One gets curious notions in Herares. The

next moment they were gone. The jungle had shut down on them, swallowed

them up. They were instantly lost in it, as a bubble is lost in the sea.

“Two days before I hadn’t known of their existence. But I was there to

see them off, and I was there when Scott came back.

“It was well on into the rainy season, and I was down with fever. I was

in my house, in my hammock, and the wind was swinging it. It was

probably the hammock that did all the swinging, but I thought it was the

house, and I had one foot on the floor to try and steady it. But it was

no use. The walls lifted and sank all in one rush, like the side of a

ship at sea. Outside I could see a pink roof, a white roof, a tin roof,

and then the forest, with the opening of a path like the black mouth of

a tunnel. I wanted to watch this tunnel, because I had an idea I’d seen

something crawl along it a good while before. But I couldn’t manage it;

I had to shut my eyes. And then I felt the scratching on my boot . . .

“I caught hold of the sides of the hammock, but it was some time before

I could manage to pull myself up. Then I looked down.

“A man was lying along on his face on the floor, just as he had crawled

into my hut and fallen. The yellowed fingers of one hand clawed on my

boot, and that was the only sign that he was alive. He lay quite quiet,

except for the slow working of his fingers. And I sat quite quiet,

staring down on him with the infinite leisure that follows a temperature

of one hundred and five. It was only by slow degrees I realized that

this was Derek Scott come back, and that he was probably dying.

“I got to my feet, and bent over him, but I couldn’t raise him, of

course. I was afraid he’d die before anyone came. So I took my revolver

and aimed as well as I could at that tin roof beneath which my man Pedro

was eating his dinner. The barrel went up and down with the walls of the

hut, but I must have hit the roof, for the next thing I knew was a lot

of smoke and noise, and Pedro’s face, eyes and mouth open, rushing out

of it. There seemed no interval before I found myself sitting in the

hammock, and saying over and over again, ‘But where’s the little chap?

Where’s the little French chap?’

“Scott was still on the floor, but his head was on my man’s shoulder,

and Pedro was gently feeding him with sips of brandy and condensed milk.

He turned and looked at me, and his eyes were clear and considering as

ever, though his answer didn’t sound quite sane. He said, ‘The clocks

wouldn’t tick.’

“He said it as if it explained everything. Then he unstrapped a tin case

from his belt, laid his head on it, and was instantly asleep.

“I cried out, ‘Is it the fever, Pedro?’ But my man said, ‘No, Senor, it

is the hunger.’ He rolled Scott up very cleverly in a blanket. ‘This

Senor has had the fever, but it is not upon him now. Without doubt he is

a little mad from being in the forest so long. But when he wakes he will

be stronger. So much I heard, and no more. Unconsciousness came down on

me like a wave. But into the dark heart of that wave I carried the

certainty that Pedro knew all about the matter and that he hated Henkel.

How or why I was certain of this I don’t know. But I was.

“I woke in the cool of the evening. The fresh breeze off the river was

like the breath of life, and Pedro’s face, thrust close to mine, no

longer grew large and small by fits. I noticed that it was quite grey,

and that his lips twitched as he muttered, ‘Senor, Senor . . .’

“I said, ‘Where is the Senor Scott?’

“‘He woke a little while ago and called for water to wash in and a clean

coat, and he used the hair-brush. Then he went out—went out—’

“I got to my feet, threw an arm over Pedro’s shoulder, and he ran with

me out into the moonlit street. The track to the fountain lay like a

ribbon of silver, the houses were like blocks of silver; and every house

was shuttered and silent—breathless. Not a man lounged under the shade

of the walls, not a girl went late to draw water, not a dog barked. The

little place was deserted in the hold of the forest. It lay like a

lonely raft of silver in the midst of a black sea. Only ahead of me a

man stumbled slowly in the middle of the road, and his shadow staggered

beside him. I have said there was no other living thing visible. Yet as

this man stumbled past the shuttered houses, the very blades of grass,

the very leaves on the wall, seemed to have conscious life and to be

aware of him. When the wind moved the trees, every branch seemed

straining to follow him as Pedro and I followed.

“We followed, but we could not gain on him. It was like the dreams of

fever. Pedro and I seemed to be struggling through the silence of

Herares as if it were something heavy and resistant, and Scott reeled

from side to side, but always kept the same distance ahead. We were

still behind when we turned into Henkel’s garden, and the scent of the

flowers beat in our faces like heat. At the foot of the verandah steps

we met the man who had admitted Scott.

“The man was running away. He was a cripple. He came down the steps

doubled up, bundled past us, and was gone. Somewhere a door clashed

open. There was no other sound. But in a moment the garden seemed full

of stampeding servants, all maimed, or ill, or aged. They melted

silently into the bushes as rats melt into brushwood, and they took no

notice of us. I heard Pedro catch his breath quickly. But when a light

flared up in one of the rooms, it showed no more than Scott talking with

Henkel.

“They showed like moving pictures in a frame, and the frame was dark

leaves about the window, which was open. I leaned against the side of

it, and Pedro squatted at my feet, his head thrust forward as if he were

at a cockfight. I did not know just why I was there. Henkel sat at a

table, wagging his head backwards and forwards. Scott was sitting

opposite him; and he looked as Lazarus might have looked when first he

heard the Voice, and stirred . . . .

“Henkel was saying, ‘Dear me, dear me, but why should this have

happened?’ And Scott answered him as he had answered me, in that

strange, patient voice,

“‘The clocks wouldn’t tick.’

“‘But they were good clocks,’ cried Henkel.

“Scott shook his head. ‘No, they were not good clocks, he explained

gently, ‘they were too cheap. They would not go at all in the jungle. An

Indian of the Mazzaron does not care what time his clock tells, but he

likes it to tick. These were no good. And the food was not good. The

things in the tins were bad when we opened them.’

“‘Mismanagement, mismanagement,’ said Henkel, but Scott went on as if he

had not heard.

“‘We followed the river for two days and then turned east. In a week

after that, two of your men were dead. They died of fever. No, the

quinine was no good. There was a lot of flour in it. Two days more, and

another man died, but he would have died anyhow. It was very hard to see

them die and to be able to do nothing.

“‘The men who were left went so slowly that nearly all our food was gone

when we reached the country of the Indios. We made our camp, and I shot

a pig. That made us stronger, but Louis was very bad then with the

fever.

“‘The Indios came down, and we spoke with their head-men. They thought

we were mad, but the clocks pleased them. They sat round our tents and

shook them to make them tick louder, until Louis cried out in his fever

that all the world was a great clock that ticked. They gave us leave to

hunt in their country for butterflies, and the head-men told off six to

help us. One was very clever. He used to wear his net on his head with

the stick hanging down behind, and he snared the butterflies with a loop

of grass, as if they had been birds.

“‘Our tents were of cheap cotton stuff that would not keep the rain out,

and the wet came in on Louis and made him worse. But he was young, and I

saw to it that he had food, and your men loved him. I do not think he

would have died if the clocks had ticked properly.’

“‘I do not understand,’ said Henkel, blinking his heavy brown eyes.

“‘No? They were so cheap that they broke at the first winding. The

Indios brought them back, and asked for better ones. I had no better

ones.’

“‘Still, I do not understand,’ said Henkel, smoothly, and blinked in the

lamplight.

“Scott’s tired voice went on. ‘The Indios were very angry. They brought

us no more butterflies and no more food. And presently, as we went about

the camp, or the paths of the forest, the little arrows began to fall in

front of us and behind, though we never saw who shot at us.’

“‘The little arrows?’ asked Henkel, heavily. ‘I do not understand. Go

on.’

“‘There is very little to tell. Only a nightmare of hunger, of wet, of

fever, of silence, and the little poisoned arrows quivering everywhere

. . . . And one day a little dart flickered through a rent in the rotten

cotton tenting and struck Louis. He died in five minutes. Then I and the

men who were left broke through and came down to the Mazzaron. The

Indios followed us, and I am the only one left. It is a pity the clocks

wouldn’t tick, Mister Henkel.’

“‘Ya, ya,’ said Henkel, leaning over the table, ‘but the butterfly? The

golden butterfly? You have found it?’

“Scott opened the tin case slowly and clumsily, drew out the perfect

insect, and laid it on the table. But it is wrong to speak of that

wide-winged loveliness as an insect. Henkel sat staring at its

glittering and transparent gold, one big yellowish hand curved on either

side of it, too happy to speak. His lips moved, and I fancied he was

saying to himself, ‘Cheap, cheap . . . .’

“‘It is very good,’ he said at last, cunningly, ‘but I am sorry there is

only one. I do not know that it is worth very much. But now I will pay

you as I promised. There was no agreement that you should receive the

other young man’s share, and there is only one specimen. But I will pay

you.’

“Scott was fumbling in his belt. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you will pay me,’ and

he leaned forward with something in his hand. We saw Henkel’s face turn

to yellow wax, and he tried to stand up, but he was too stout to lift

himself quickly. He had no time to turn before Scott shot him through

the heart.

“When I broke through the vines, Scott was moving the butterfly out of

the way . . . . . He looked up at me with his old considering look, his

old clean smile. ‘It was cheap at the price,’ he said, touching one

golden wing with his finger.”