More ironically still, the light came from the tent of Voss, who was writing in his journal, like a methodical man. The others, on that night of rain and discomfort, had made an effort to overcome the darkness, but had fallen at once into a steamy sleep; they had not bothered even to sort out the bodies, and were bundled all hugger-mugger in the second tent.
‘Is that you, Frank?’ called Voss.
‘Yes,’ said Le Mesurier, addressing the luminous canvas.
‘Did you give this message?’ the German asked.
‘Yes.’
‘In what way will the sheep behave, when they are finally abandoned?’ the light asked. ‘Do you suppose they will be in any way aware, as they stand amongst those bushes? The silence, for one thing, will sound more intense as it penetrates the wool. Still, there will be water, and grass, and they will drink and graze before they lie down and die. It is, in any case, perfectly normal for sheep to die.’
‘Yes.’
‘And we shall enjoy the advantage of the mutton from those that Ralph and Turner kill. We shall dry the meat in the sun. If there is a sun. Do you suppose, Frank, that the weather will permit of drying the meat?’
But Le Mesurier had gone.
And Voss, the man who was left alone, continued after a while to write in his journal.
After hobbling his tired mare, Le Mesurier, the still-possessed, bundled into the second tent, in which the others were sleeping, their white bellies afloat upon the darkness, together with their dreams and snores. The young man, after dropping his wet and wrinkled rags, wrapped himself in a blanket, but continued to shiver. He was tortuously stooped in the low tent, as in a womb. When he had rummaged in his pack, and found a little candle-end — very precious — and the rather dented tinder-box, and the flame was at last trembling on the wick, he lay down, but still shivering and gritting his teeth, struggling in the grip of a fever, it would appear.
Watching through his eyelashes, Harry Robarts saw Mr Le Mesurier take out that book in which he wrote so frequently. As he tossed and shivered, he was at great pains to form the words, Harry observed. Or the man’s dry mouth would suck at the air for some renewed sweetness of suffering. Until the boy, who shared the same transparent womb, longed to burst out into a life he did not know, but sensed. He was throbbing with excitement, while also afraid, as the teeth of the moon sawed away at the sodden canvas, as the slippery earth continued to heave, and the man to write in painful forms. At last Le Mesurier fell back with his head upon the saddle, and Harry Robarts watched the transparent fingers pinch the flame off the stinking wick.
Soon there was not a man awake on either side of those sharp hills, for Angus and Turner had quickly fallen into a stupor against their bit of a hissing fire.
Recently these two had become inseparable, if only through appreciation of each other’s mediocrity. In consequence, neither could apprehend the nature of their relationship, and each was flattered by it. The seedy Turner, who could not see straight except by squinting, and then was crooked in his final vision, who was spewed up out of what stew nobody had ever heard, and who had begun lately to suffer from the suppurating boils, this Turner was in love with the rich young landowner, and could not let him go from his side without he felt the draught. Ralph Angus, who had been so glossy, whose whiskers in normal circumstances wore a gallant, reddish curl — he was, in fact, the colour of a chestnut horse — would have been amused at Turner’s friendship if he had not become grateful for it. They could speak together, he had discovered, of little things. They would talk about the weather and the state of their stomachs, and end up feeling quite elevated by conversation. They would sigh like dogs, and enjoy the silences. If each had something to conceal, for Turner was possessed of cunning, and had been a pickpocket at times, and perhaps had even killed a man, while Angus had known the Palladian splendours — his godmother was the daughter of an earl, his nose had been wiped for him, and his father had grabbed several thousand colonial acres, by honest means — these running sores in their past lives had been mercifully healed by that nothingness to which their long journey had reduced the two friends.
On the night of rain when they had made themselves at home beneath the rock ledge, they were noticeably united, the splendid, glossy gentleman, who had by now acquired the colour and texture of a coconut, and the yellow reprobate, whose body was crying out through the mouths of his boils. After they had lit their little fire, of which the spitting alone was a comfort, they began to say kind things to each other.
‘Here is a pinch of tea,’ Turner said. ‘You take your quart, Ralph, and brew for yerself. I have not got the stomach for even a hot cup of tea.’
‘But you are eating,’ Angus pointed out.
‘By George, so I am. It is from habit, I assure you,’ said Turner, crooking his finger a bit from proximity to the gentleman.
‘Then you will drink from habit, too, idiot,’ said Angus. ‘Or I will pour it into the ground.’
‘If you please, then,’ said Turner, with genteel resignation.
The quart pot was soon sighing on the damp sticks. As the scum rose from the water, the men would knock it off. Each was seated tailorwise, sticking the fragments of food into his mouth, and staring far too intently at the pot, the alternative of which would have been his mate’s face.
It was at this point and from this position that they had looked out and seen the horseman descending the hill.
What they had always suspected, the lightning at once made evident: that the rider was not of their own kind. Even before he was gone, each of the cave-dwellers was raging, and longing to communicate his rage. They were brought together closer than before. Each wondered what the other had seen, although neither would have dared to speculate on the nature of his vision. Thought is very disturbing when it lights up the mind by green flashes.
Some time after Le Mesurier had left, while Turner was still picking his teeth and digesting what he had eaten, he did remark:
‘That is one I cannot cotton to, Ralph.’
The young landowner winced, and was loth to criticize a man who might possibly be considered a member of his own class.
‘He is an odd sort of cove. He is different,’ finally he replied.
‘Not so different from some,’ Turner said.
‘What do you imply by that?’ asked Angus, who did not care to become involved in any unpleasantness.
He was what you would call a pleasant fellow, no one had anything against him, and now he did a little repent of his rash friendship.
‘Eh?’ mumbled Turner, resentfully.
‘What do you mean, then?’
‘Voss is what I mean. And Le Mesurier.’
Angus tingled.
‘In this expedition, which is what it is called,’ Turner said, or whispered, rather, from habit, ‘we are made up of oil and water, you might say, and will not run together, ever.’
The whites of the young grazier’s eyes had remained very clear.
‘I have every intention,’ he said, ‘of running together with Mr Voss, who is the leader of the expedition.’
‘Oil and water,’ Turner chanted.
The fire hissed.
‘We understand each other, Ralph, you and me.’
The rich young landowner did sincerely yearn for understanding with his friend.
‘As that is a quart pot, there is no mistake about it,’ Turner assured him, and the black pot did look most convincing. ‘But that there Le Mesurier’ — how the speaker hated the name, and would roll it between his tongue and his palate, more often than not, as if to gather up a bad taste, and spit it out — ‘that Le Me-sur-ier would keep a cove guessing for years. Then you would wake up one fine day, and find as the pot was not at all what you and me thought it to be.’