He stared at himself in the small mirror over the galley sink, as if expecting to already see the horrible evidence of that terrifying encounter: skin hard and cracking, seamed, nose eaten away, ears gone. He had been with lepers; he had spoken to them! They had practically breathed in his face, infecting him, contaminating him! A sudden additional frightening thought came; they had touched the boat! He spat into the sink as if to rid himself of the germs, staring into the mirror at his dulled yellowish eyes, wondering at the curse that had been laid upon him, and then left the cabin, picking up a bottle of rum and a holystone from the locker, carrying them on deck. The rum was splashed over the place where the clawed hand had slapped against the rail; the holystone applied on top of the damp surface with an almost-frenzied zeal, his large trembling hands taking care not to touch the surface itself. When the air had dried the railing, he returned to the galley for a second flask to repeat the performance, and then the third and last. Only when the final bottle was bobbing lightly away from the boat, hiding itself between the waves, did he suddenly wish he had swallowed some of it. Or all of it. There might have been some peace in the sweet stupor the rum contained along with its tartness. He stared stupidly down at the holystone still clenched in his hand and then flung it from him as far as he could.
He went back to the wheel and took command of the boat once again, reducing its mad speed, calculating the little time of daylight remaining, but all in a daze as something that had to be done, although he couldn’t be sure just why. His hand moved the wheel without conscious volition; only a tiny portion of his mind attacked the problem of the boat’s position while the balance attempted to evaluate the full enormity of the tragedy. For the first time in his memory a situation had arisen beyond his control — beyond anyone’s control. The stones were lost beyond recovery, and his fifteen years in prison had, indeed, been for naught. Fifteen years and the lives of good men — all for what? Bits of shiny glass, colored chips of rock, baubles. Oh, they could buy many things, my word, but they couldn’t buy back the fifteen years in prison or the lives of the dead men.
Night had fallen with tropical swiftness; he had not even noticed the evaporation of the light. The stars lifted and lowered above him as the boat rolled lightly through the blackness, its twin exhausts attempting to be comforting with their steady rumbling, their efforts wasted on the thinking man. What a sad joke the entire affair had become, eh, Billy my boy? If that bostard on the porch, that Tommy, could have been trusted, it all could have been saved; if he could have been trusted, the mon might actually have been waiting for him on one of the other islands with a stack of cash on his release from prison. But he couldn’t be trusted, and that was the fact. And besides, who could have calculated that some maniac would decide to put a leper colony on his island? Nobody, that’s who. The whole bloody thing was a farce. My word!
He forced his mind away from the terrible thought, trying to concentrate on the approaching shoreline and the hills faintly visible under the sliver of moon. Lights had appeared there, tiny pinpricks in the dark curtain of the night. He found the flashing buoy off Plymouth Point and automatically pulled the throttle back, letting the boat rock in the wash of the sea, then leaned forward, pushing the winch lever, feeling the boat heel slightly as the anchor slowly paid out, seeking bottom. He felt it grab and hold, the boat swinging in an arc. He turned off the ignition and slipped over the side, feeling the sharp bite of the salt water on his lip where he had bitten it without knowing.
He was unaware until he had taken several strokes that he still retained his clothing, and the revolver was still tucked in his pocket, sagging, weighing him down. He paused, treading water, neither surprised nor angry at his own forgetfulness — everything seemed to be out of his hands now — and calmly removed first the boots, then the trousers, and finally his shirt. The shoes and trousers sank instantly; the shirt floated a while behind him, the sleeves waving languidly in the gloom. Then he put his head down and slowly began to stroke for the beach.
The small house beyond the fringe of trees was dim, but a faint light glowed this time behind a drawn curtain over an open window. And this time the big black man made no attempt at silence or secrecy, tramping toward it across the glade, calling out loudly.
“Tommy!”
The curtain was brushed aside urgently; a voice whispered through the screened opening.
“Billy, is that you? You bloody fool, keep your voice down!”
The curtain dropped; a moment later the door to the porch had opened and closed. Tommy glared down through the darkness at the faint shadow of the man below him. McNeil came closer, breathing deeply. The walk inland from the shore, plus the stiff climb to the house, had not been sufficient to dry his wet swimming trunks, but he was unaware of their clamminess against his skin. He was tired, his breathing painful; he was surprised that the swim and the hike had enervated him to such an extent, but at least it had driven the worst of the demons from his brain, if only for the moment. He climbed the steps slowly, his calves aching (Had he, then, really contracted the disease? Was this the first symptom?) — and slumped on the top step. He began to speak, and then found he had to pause to clear his throat. (Did it affect the vocal cords so quickly?)
“Rum.”
“Keep your voice down, mon!” Tommy stared at the other, calculating. McNeil undoubtedly had picked up the gems, he thought; not much question of that. Only success could have drained the big man’s energy to that extent; failure never had. And three bottles of rum aboard with which to celebrate. A mistake, those three bottles, but what the devil! “So you got them, eh?” It was impossible to keep the elation from his voice. “Good-o, Billy boy!”
“Rum!”
“Billy, for Christ’s sake, keep your voice down!”
“I said—!”
McNeil glared upwards in the darkness savagely. On top of everything else he had suffered that day, was he going to have trouble with Tommy now? My word!
“All right!” The intent whisper contained a touch of disgust; he disappeared into the house to return in moments with a bottle. He handed it down. “Here’s your bloody rum, but you sound as if you’ve had your share and more, already.”
McNeil didn’t bother to answer. He grasped the bottle, twisted the cork loose and tossed it aside, upending the bottle, gulping eagerly. He paused for breath and raised it again, quaffing deeply. Tommy glared down at him.
“Well, you needn’t drink it all, mon.”
McNeil swallowed again and then paused, frowning, his gullet locked against the fiery liquid as a thought came to him. Don’t drink it all? He lowered the bottle.
“Don’t worry,” he said huskily. “I won’t.”
He raised the bottle again, chuckling to himself. Drink it all? The idea made him choke on the rum, coughing. Never would he drink it all, never fear! If he had the disease, let Tommy suffer with him. Who had dreamed up the scheme in the first place, and hadn’t spent one single solitary day at the rock pile while the rest of them — God rest their souls — hadn’t had it that easy. Drink it all? No chance. My word! He caught his breath and handed the bottle up.
“Here, mon. Be my guest.”
The other man took the bottle, started to raise it to his lips, and then paused.
“Well, here’s to you, Billy boy, and a good job done. Here’s to a fair split, too...”