The Shadow of the East

There was nothing to do but telegraph to Peters that he was on his way home and make arrangements for leaving Africa at the earliest opportunity. He found there was no steamer leaving for Marseilles for nearly a week but he was able to secure berths for himself and Yoshio on a coasting boat crossing that night to Gibraltar, and at sunset he was on board waving fare-well to Saïd, who had come down to the quay to see the last of him, and was standing a distinctive figure among the rabble of loafers and water-side loungers of all nationalities who congregated night and morning to watch the arrival and departure of steamers. The tide was out and the littered fore-shore was lined with fishing-boats drawn up in picturesque confusion, and in the shallow water out among the rocks bare-legged native women were collecting shell fish and seaweed into great baskets fastened to their backs, while naked children splashed about them or stood with their knuckles to their teeth to watch the thrashing paddle wheels of the little steamer as she churned slowly away from the quay. Craven leant on the rail of the ship, a pipe between his teeth—he had existed for the last four months on Saïd’s cigarettes—and waved a response to the young Sheik’s final salute, then watched him stalk through the heterogeneous crowd to where two of his mounted followers were waiting for him holding his own impatient horse. He saw him mount and the passers-by scatter as the three riders set off with the usual Arab impetuosity, and then a group of buildings hid him from sight.

The idlers by the waterside held no interest for Craven, he was too used to them, too familiar with the riff-raff of foreign ports even to glance at them. But he lingered for a moment to look up at the church of Notre Dame d’Afrique that, set high above the harbour and standing out sharply against the skyline, was glowing warmly in the golden rays of the setting sun.

Then he went below to the stuffy little cabin where dinner was waiting.

The next four days he kicked his heels impatiently in Gibraltar waiting to pick up a passage on a home bound Indian boat. When it came it was half empty, as was to be expected at that time of year, and the gale they ran into immediately drove the majority of the passengers into the saloons, and Craven was able to tramp the deck in comparative solitude without having to listen to the grumbles of shivering Anglo-Indians returning home at an unpropitious season. In a borrowed oilskin he spent hours watching the storm, looking at the white topped waves that piled up against the ship and threatened to engulf her, then slid astern in a welter of spray. The savage beauty of the sea fascinated him, and the heavy lowering clouds that drove rapidly across a leaden sky, and the stinging whip of the wind formed a welcome change after more than two years of pitiless African sun and intense heat.

They passed up the Thames dead slow in a dense fog that grew thicker and murkier as they neared the docks, but they berthed early enough to enable Craven to catch a train that would bring him home in time for dinner. It was better than wasting a night in London.

He had a compartment to himself and spent the time staring out of the misty rain-spattered windows, a prey to violent anxiety and impatience. The five-hour journey had never seemed so long. He had bought a number of papers and periodicals but they lay unheeded on the seat beside him. He was out of touch with current events, and had stopped at the bookstall more from force of habit than from any real interest. He had wired to Peters again from the docks. Would she be waiting for him at the station? It was scarcely probable. Their meeting could not be other than constrained, the platform of a wayside railway station was hardly a suitable place. And why in heaven’s name should she do him so much honour? He had no right to expect it, no right to expect anything. That she should be even civil to him was more than he deserved. Would she be changed in any way? God, how he longed to see her! His heart beat furiously even at the thought. With his coat collar turned up about his ears and his cap pulled down over his eyes he shivered in a corner of the cold carriage and dreamed of her as the hours drew out in maddening slowness. Outside it was growing dusk and the window panes had become too steamy for him to recognise familiar landmarks. The train seemed to crawl. There had been an unaccountable wait at the last stopping place, and they did not appear to be making up the lost time.