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Authors: C S Forester
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minutes he was happily snoring again, while Rose sat stiff and still, and chewed the cud of her resentment against him, and the reek of the spilt gin filled the night air.
Despair and hatred kept her from sleep. At that moment she had no hope left on earth. Her knowledge of men—which meant her knowledge of Samuel and of her father—told her that when a man said a thing he meant it, and nothing on earth would budge him from that decision. She could not believe that Allnutt would ever be induced or persuaded or bullied into attempting to pass Shona, and she hated him for it. It was the first time she had ever really set her heart on anything, and Allnutt stood in her way, immovable. Rose wasted no idle dreams on Quixotic plans of getting rid of Allnutt and conducting the African Queen single-handed; she was levelheaded enough and sufficiently aware of her own limitations not to think of that for a second.
At the same time she seethed with revolt and resentment even against the godlike male. Although for thirty years she had submitted quite naturally to the arbitrary decisions of the superior sex, this occasion was different. She wanted most passionately to go on; she knew she ought to; conscience and inclination combined to make her resent Allnutt’s change of front. There was nothing left to live for, if she could not get the African Queen down to the lake to strike her blow for England; and such was the obvious sanctity of such a mission that she stood convicted in her own mind of mortal sin if she did not achieve it. Her bitterness against Allnutt increased.
She resolved, as the night wore on, to make Allnutt pay for his arbitrariness. She set her teeth, she chewed at her nails—and Rose’s mother’s slipper had cured her of nail-biting at the age of twelve—as she swore to herself to make Allnutt’s life hell for him. Rose had never tried to raise hell in her life, but in her passion of resentment she felt inspired to it. In the darkness her jaw came forward, and her lips compressed until her mouth was no more than a thin line, and there were deep parentheses from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. Anyone who could have seen Rose at that moment would have taken her for a shrew, a woman with the temper of a fiend. Now that Samuel was dead, Rose had no use for patience or resignation or charity or forgiveness or any of the passive Christian virtues.
Nor was her temper improved by a night of discomfort. Cramps and aches made her change her position, but she could not, even if she would, lie down in the sternsheets where Allnutt was all asprawl across the boat, and she would not make her way forward to take up Allnutt’s usual nest among the explosives. She sat and suffered on the ribbed bench, on which she had sat all day, and even her shapely and well-covered hindquarters protested. She slept, towards morning, by fits and starts, but that amount of sleep did nothing towards mollifying her cold rage.
Dawn revealed to her Allnutt lying like a corpse on the floor boards. His face, hardly veiled by the sprouting beard, was a dirty grey, and from his open mouth came soft but unpleasing sounds. There was no pleasure in the sight of him. Rose got to her feet and stepped over him; she would have spurned him with her foot, save that she did not want to rouse him to violent opposition to what she was going to do. She dragged out the case of gin, took out a bottle and stripped the lead foil from the end. The cork was of the convenient kind which needs no corkscrew. She poured the stuff overside, dropped the bottle in after it, and began on another.
When for the third time the glug-glug-glug of poured liquid reached Allnutt’s ears he muttered something, opened his eyes, and tried to sit up.
“Jesus!” he said.
It was not the sight of what Rose was doing which called forth the exclamation, for he still did not know the reason of the noise which had roused him. Allnutt’s head was like a lump of red-hot pain.
Despair and hatred kept her from sleep. At that moment she had no hope left on earth. Her knowledge of men—which meant her knowledge of Samuel and of her father—told her that when a man said a thing he meant it, and nothing on earth would budge him from that decision. She could not believe that Allnutt would ever be induced or persuaded or bullied into attempting to pass Shona, and she hated him for it. It was the first time she had ever really set her heart on anything, and Allnutt stood in her way, immovable. Rose wasted no idle dreams on Quixotic plans of getting rid of Allnutt and conducting the African Queen single-handed; she was levelheaded enough and sufficiently aware of her own limitations not to think of that for a second.
At the same time she seethed with revolt and resentment even against the godlike male. Although for thirty years she had submitted quite naturally to the arbitrary decisions of the superior sex, this occasion was different. She wanted most passionately to go on; she knew she ought to; conscience and inclination combined to make her resent Allnutt’s change of front. There was nothing left to live for, if she could not get the African Queen down to the lake to strike her blow for England; and such was the obvious sanctity of such a mission that she stood convicted in her own mind of mortal sin if she did not achieve it. Her bitterness against Allnutt increased.
She resolved, as the night wore on, to make Allnutt pay for his arbitrariness. She set her teeth, she chewed at her nails—and Rose’s mother’s slipper had cured her of nail-biting at the age of twelve—as she swore to herself to make Allnutt’s life hell for him. Rose had never tried to raise hell in her life, but in her passion of resentment she felt inspired to it. In the darkness her jaw came forward, and her lips compressed until her mouth was no more than a thin line, and there were deep parentheses from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. Anyone who could have seen Rose at that moment would have taken her for a shrew, a woman with the temper of a fiend. Now that Samuel was dead, Rose had no use for patience or resignation or charity or forgiveness or any of the passive Christian virtues.
Nor was her temper improved by a night of discomfort. Cramps and aches made her change her position, but she could not, even if she would, lie down in the sternsheets where Allnutt was all asprawl across the boat, and she would not make her way forward to take up Allnutt’s usual nest among the explosives. She sat and suffered on the ribbed bench, on which she had sat all day, and even her shapely and well-covered hindquarters protested. She slept, towards morning, by fits and starts, but that amount of sleep did nothing towards mollifying her cold rage.
Dawn revealed to her Allnutt lying like a corpse on the floor boards. His face, hardly veiled by the sprouting beard, was a dirty grey, and from his open mouth came soft but unpleasing sounds. There was no pleasure in the sight of him. Rose got to her feet and stepped over him; she would have spurned him with her foot, save that she did not want to rouse him to violent opposition to what she was going to do. She dragged out the case of gin, took out a bottle and stripped the lead foil from the end. The cork was of the convenient kind which needs no corkscrew. She poured the stuff overside, dropped the bottle in after it, and began on another.
When for the third time the glug-glug-glug of poured liquid reached Allnutt’s ears he muttered something, opened his eyes, and tried to sit up.
“Jesus!” he said.
It was not the sight of what Rose was doing which called forth the exclamation, for he still did not know the reason of the noise which had roused him. Allnutt’s head was like a lump of red-hot pain.
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