Adventure and adventurers -- Fiction; Short stories
A black rage came upon me—the rage of extreme
intoxication—but not against the injustice of society. Oh, no!
</p>
<p>
“‘I must be free!’ I cried, furiously.
</p>
<p>
“‘Vive la liberte!” yells that ruffian Mafile. ‘Mort aux bourgeois who
send us to Cayenne! They shall soon know that we are free.’
</p>
<p>
“The sky, the sea, the whole horizon, seemed to turn red, blood red all
round the boat. My temples were beating so loud that I wondered they did
not hear. How is it that they did not? How is it they did not understand?
</p>
<p>
“I heard Simon ask, ‘Have we not pulled far enough out now?’
</p>
<p>
“‘Yes. Far enough,’ I said. I was sorry for him; it was the other I hated.
He hauled in his oar with a loud sigh, and as he was raising his hand to
wipe his forehead with the air of a man who has done his work, I pulled
the trigger of my revolver and shot him like this off the knee, right
through the heart.
</p>
<p>
“He tumbled down, with his head hanging over the side of the boat. I did
not give him a second glance. The other cried out piercingly. Only one
shriek of horror. Then all was still.
</p>
<p>
“He slipped off the thwart on to his knees and raised his clasped hands
before his face in an attitude of supplication. ‘Mercy,’ he whispered,
faintly. ‘Mercy for me!—comrade.’
</p>
<p>
“‘Ah, comrade,’ I said, in a low tone. ‘Yes, comrade, of course. Well,
then, shout Vive l’anarchie.’
</p>
<p>
“He flung up his arms, his face up to the sky and his mouth wide open in a
great yell of despair. ‘Vive l’anarchie! Vive—’
</p>
<p>
“He collapsed all in a heap, with a bullet through his head.
</p>
<p>
“I flung them both overboard. I threw away the revolver, too. Then I sat
down quietly. I was free at last! At last. I did not even look towards the
ship; I did not care; indeed, I think I must have gone to sleep, because
all of a sudden there were shouts and I found the ship almost on top of
me. They hauled me on board and secured the boat astern. They were all
blacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto. He alone knew a few words
of French. I could not find out where they were going nor who they were.
They gave me something to eat every day; but I did not like the way they
used to discuss me in their language. Perhaps they were deliberating about
throwing me overboard in order to keep possession of the boat. How do I
know? As we were passing this island I asked whether it was inhabited. I
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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