Page 295 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

in a tone of relief. Most of the Europeans in Sulaco were
there, rallied round Charles Gould, as if the silver of the
mine had been the emblem of a common cause, the symbol
of the supreme importance of material interests. They had
loaded it into the lighter with their own hands. Nostromo
recognized Don Carlos Gould, a thin, tall shape standing a
little apart and silent, to whom another tall shape, the en-
gineer-in-chief, said aloud, ‘If it must be lost, it is a million
times better that it should go to the bottom of the sea.’
Martin Decoud called out from the lighter, ‘Au revoir,
messieurs, till we clasp hands again over the new-born Oc-
cidental Republic.’ Only a subdued murmur responded to
his clear, ringing tones; and then it seemed to him that the
wharf was floating away into the night; but it was Nostro-
mo, who was already pushing against a pile with one of the
heavy sweeps. Decoud did not move; the effect was that of
being launched into space. After a splash or two there was
not a sound but the thud of Nostromo’s feet leaping about
the boat. He hoisted the big sail; a breath of wind fanned
Decoud’s cheek. Everything had vanished but the light of
the lantern Captain Mitchell had hoisted upon the post at
the end of the jetty to guide Nostromo out of the harbour.
The two men, unable to see each other, kept silent till the
lighter, slipping before the fitful breeze, passed out between
almost invisible headlands into the still deeper darkness of
the gulf. For a time the lantern on the jetty shone after them.
The wind failed, then fanned up again, but so faintly that
the big, half-decked boat slipped along with no more noise
than if she had been suspended in the air.

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard