Joseph Conrad: Nostromo

PART SECOND: THE ISABELS 7. CHAPTER SEVEN (continued)

"But, as a matter of fact, he managed somehow to escape the
vigilance of his captors, who had tried to stop the communication
with the outer world. He did manage it. How it was done I don't
know, but a few hours afterwards he called up Sulaco again, and
what he said was, 'The insurgent army has taken possession of the
Government transport in the bay and are filling her with troops,
with the intention of going round the coast to Sulaco. Therefore
look out for yourselves. They will be ready to start in a few
hours, and may be upon you before daybreak.'

"This is all he could say. They drove him away from his
instrument this time for good, because Bernhardt has been calling
up Esmeralda ever since without getting an answer."

After setting these words down in the pocket-book which he was
filling up for the benefit of his sister, Decoud lifted his head
to listen. But there were no sounds, neither in the room nor in
the house, except the drip of the water from the filter into the
vast earthenware jar under the wooden stand. And outside the
house there was a great silence. Decoud lowered his head again
over the pocket-book.

"I am not running away, you understand," he wrote on. "I am
simply going away with that great treasure of silver which must
be saved at all costs. Pedro Montero from the Campo and the
revolted garrison of Esmeralda from the sea are converging upon
it. That it is there lying ready for them is only an accident.
The real objective is the San Tome mine itself, as you may well
imagine; otherwise the Occidental Province would have been, no
doubt, left alone for many weeks, to be gathered at leisure into
the arms of the victorious party. Don Carlos Gould will have
enough to do to save his mine, with its organization and its
people; this 'Imperium in Imperio,' this wealth-producing thing,
to which his sentimentalism attaches a strange idea of justice.
He holds to it as some men hold to the idea of love or revenge.
Unless I am much mistaken in the man, it must remain inviolate or
perish by an act of his will alone. A passion has crept into his
cold and idealistic life. A passion which I can only comprehend
intellectually. A passion that is not like the passions we know,
we men of another blood. But it is as dangerous as any of ours.