Joseph Conrad: Nostromo

PART SECOND: THE ISABELS 8. CHAPTER EIGHT (continued)

It appeared that he had never found a safe opportunity to leave
Sulaco. He lodged with Anzani, the universal storekeeper, on the
Plaza Mayor. But when the riot broke out he had made his escape
from his host's house before daylight, and in such a hurry that
he had forgotten to put on his shoes. He had run out impulsively
in his socks, and with his hat in his hand, into the garden of
Anzani's house. Fear gave him the necessary agility to climb over
several low walls, and afterwards he blundered into the overgrown
cloisters of the ruined Franciscan convent in one of the
by-streets. He forced himself into the midst of matted bushes
with the recklessness of desperation, and this accounted for his
scratched body and his torn clothing. He lay hidden there all
day, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth with all the
intensity of thirst engendered by heat and fear. Three times
different bands of men invaded the place with shouts and
imprecations, looking for Father Corbelan; but towards the
evening, still lying on his face in the bushes, he thought he
would die from the fear of silence. He was not very clear as to
what had induced him to leave the place, but evidently he had got
out and slunk successfully out of town along the deserted back
lanes. He wandered in the darkness near the railway, so maddened
by apprehension that he dared not even approach the fires of the
pickets of Italian workmen guarding the line. He had a vague idea
evidently of finding refuge in the railway yards, but the dogs
rushed upon him, barking; men began to shout; a shot was fired at
random. He fled away from the gates. By the merest accident, as
it happened, he took the direction of the O.S.N. Company's
offices. Twice he stumbled upon the bodies of men killed during
the day. But everything living frightened him much more. He
crouched, crept, crawled, made dashes, guided by a sort of animal
instinct, keeping away from every light and from every sound of
voices. His idea was to throw himself at the feet of Captain
Mitchell and beg for shelter in the Company's offices. It was all
dark there as he approached on his hands and knees, but suddenly
someone on guard challenged loudly, "Quien vive?" There were more
dead men lying about, and he flattened himself down at once by
the side of a cold corpse. He heard a voice saying, "Here is one
of those wounded rascals crawling about. Shall I go and finish
him?" And another voice objected that it was not safe to go out
without a lantern upon such an errand; perhaps it was only some
negro Liberal looking for a chance to stick a knife into the
stomach of an honest man. Hirsch didn't stay to hear any more,
but crawling away to the end of the wharf, hid himself amongst a
lot of empty casks. After a while some people came along,
talking, and with glowing cigarettes. He did not stop to ask
himself whether they would be likely to do him any harm, but
bolted incontinently along the jetty, saw a lighter lying moored
at the end, and threw himself into it. In his desire to find
cover he crept right forward under the half-deck, and he had
remained there more dead than alive, suffering agonies of hunger
and thirst, and almost fainting with terror, when he heard
numerous footsteps and the voices of the Europeans who came in a
body escorting the wagonload of treasure, pushed along the rails
by a squad of Cargadores. He understood perfectly what was being
done from the talk, but did not disclose his presence from the
fear that he would not be allowed to remain. His only idea at
the time, overpowering and masterful, was to get away from this
terrible Sulaco. And now he regretted it very much. He had heard
Nostromo talk to Decoud, and wished himself back on shore. He
did not desire to be involved in any desperate affair--in a
situation where one could not run away. The involuntary groans of
his anguished spirit had betrayed him to the sharp ears of the
Capataz.