Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
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Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard

Joseph Conrad

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Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard

Joseph Conrad

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"He was ruined in every way, but a man possessed of passion is not a bankrupt in life." One of the greatest novels of the twentieth century, Joseph Conrad's Nostromo is an immensely exciting tale of love, revolution, and politics set in the mythical South American country of Costaguana during the 1890s. Ten years after his father is murdered by a brutal dictator, Englishman Charles Gould arrives in Costaguana to reopen the family silver mine. But instead of ushering in a shining era of prosperity and progress, the return of the silver engenders a new cycle of violence as Costaguana erupts in civil war, initiated by rival warlords determined to seize the mine and its riches. In desperation, Gould turns to the only man who can save the mine's treasure Nostromo, the incorruptible head of the local dockworkers, who protects the silver from rebel forces by taking it out to sea. But disaster strikes, burdening Nostromo with a terrible secret that forever alters the fate of everyone involved with the mine. A stunning monument to futility, Nostromo reveals how honor, idealism, and loyalty are inadequate defenses against the inexorable assault of corruption and evil.

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Information

Publisher
Youcanprint
Year
2018
ISBN
9788827809150
Subtopic
Classics

CHAPTER ONE

In the time of Spanish rule, and for many years afterwards, thetown of Sulaco—the luxuriant beauty of the orange gardensbears witness to its antiquity—had never been commerciallyanything more important than a coasting port with a fairly largelocal trade in ox-hides and indigo. The clumsy deep-sea galleons ofthe conquerors that, needing a brisk gale to move at all, would liebecalmed, where your modern ship built on clipper lines forgesahead by the mere flapping of her sails, had been barred out ofSulaco by the prevailing calms of its vast gulf. Some harbours ofthe earth are made difficult of access by the treachery of sunkenrocks and the tempests of their shores. Sulaco had found aninviolable sanctuary from the temptations of a trading world in thesolemn hush of the deep Golfo Placido as if within an enormoussemi-circular and unroofed temple open to the ocean, with its wallsof lofty mountains hung with the mourning draperies of cloud.
On one side of this broad curve in the straight seaboard of theRepublic of Costaguana, the last spur of the coast range forms aninsignificant cape whose name is Punta Mala. From the middle of thegulf the point of the land itself is not visible at all; but theshoulder of a steep hill at the back can be made out faintly like ashadow on the sky.
On the other side, what seems to be an isolated patch of bluemist floats lightly on the glare of the horizon. This is thepeninsula of Azuera, a wild chaos of sharp rocks and stony levelscut about by vertical ravines. It lies far out to sea like a roughhead of stone stretched from a green-clad coast at the end of aslender neck of sand covered with thickets of thorny scrub. Utterlywaterless, for the rainfall runs off at once on all sides intothesea, it has not soil enough—it is said—to grow a singleblade of grass, as if it were blighted by a curse. The poor,associating by an obscure instinct of consolation the ideas of eviland wealth, will tell you that it is deadly because of itsforbidden treasures. The common folk of the neighbourhood, peons ofthe estancias, vaqueros of the seaboard plains, tame Indians comingmiles to market with a bundle of sugar-cane or a basket of maizeworth about threepence, are well aware that heaps of shining goldlie in the gloom of the deep precipices cleaving the stony levelsof Azuera. Tradition has it that many adventurers of olden time hadperished in the search. The story goes also that within men’smemory two wandering sailors—Americanos, perhaps, but gringosof some sort for certain—talked over a gambling,good-for-nothing mozo, and the three stole a donkey to carry forthem a bundle of dry sticks, a water-skin, and provisions enough tolast a few days. Thus accompanied, and with revolvers at theirbelts,they had started to chop their way with machetes through thethorny scrub on the neck of the peninsula.
On the second evening an upright spiral of smoke (it could onlyhave been from their camp-fire) was seen for the first time withinmemory of man standing up faintly upon the sky above a razor-backedridge on the stony head. The crew of a coasting schooner, lyingbecalmed three miles off the shore, stared at it with amazementtill dark. A negro fisherman, living in a lonely hut in a littlebay near by, had seen the start and was on the lookout for somesign. He called to his wife just as the sun was about to set. Theyhad watched the strange portent with envy, incredulity, andawe.
The impious adventurers gave no other sign. The sailors, theIndian, and the stolen burro were never seen again. As to the mozo,a Sulaco man—his wife paid for some masses, and the poorfour-footed beast, being without sin, had been probably permittedto die; but the two gringos, spectral and alive, are believed to bedwelling tothis day amongst the rocks, under the fatal spell oftheir success. Their souls cannot tear themselves away from theirbodies mounting guard over the discovered treasure. They are nowrich and hungry and thirsty—a strange theory of tenaciousgringo ghostssuffering in their starved and parched flesh ofdefiant heretics, where a Christian would have renounced and beenreleased.
These, then, are the legendary inhabitants of Azuera guardingits forbidden wealth; and the shadow on the sky on one side withtheround patch of blue haze blurring the bright skirt of thehorizon on the other, mark the two outermost points of the bendwhich bears the name of Golfo Placido, because never a strong windhad been known to blow upon its waters.
On crossing the imaginaryline drawn from Punta Mala to Azuerathe ships from Europe bound to Sulaco lose at once the strongbreezes of the ocean. They become the prey of capricious airs thatplay with them for thirty hours at a stretch sometimes. Before themthe head of the calm gulf is filled on most days of the year by agreat body of motionless and opaque clouds. On the rare clearmornings another shadow is cast upon the sweep of the gulf. Thedawn breaks high behind the towering and serrated wall of theCordillera, a clear-cutvision of dark peaks rearing their steepslopes on a lofty pedestal of forest rising from the very edge ofthe shore. Amongst them the white head of Higuerota risesmajestically upon the blue. Bare clusters of enormous rockssprinkle with tiny black dots the smooth dome of snow.
Then, as the midday sun withdraws from the gulf the shadow ofthe mountains, the clouds begin to roll out of the lower valleys.They swathe in sombre tatters the naked crags of precipices abovethe wooded slopes, hide the peaks, smoke in stormy trails acrossthe snows of Higuerota. The Cordillera is gone from you as if ithad dissolved itself into great piles of grey and black vapoursthat travel out slowly to seaward and vanish into thin air allalong the front before the blazing heat of the day. The wastingedge of the cloud-bank always strives for, but seldom wins, themiddle of the gulf. The sun—as the sailors say—iseating it up. Unless perchance a sombre thunder-head breaks awayfrom the main body to career all over the gulf till it escapes intothe offing beyond Azuera, where it bursts suddenly into flame andcrashes like a sinster pirate-ship of the air, hove-to above thehorizon, engaging the sea.
At night the body of clouds advancing higher up the sky smothersthe whole quietgulf below with an impenetrable darkness, in whichthe sound of the falling showers can be heard beginning and ceasingabruptly—now here, now there. Indeed, these cloudy nights areproverbial with the seamen along the whole west coast of a greatcontinent. Sky, land, and sea disappear together out of the worldwhen the Placido—as the saying is—goes to sleep underits black poncho. The few stars left below the seaward frown of thevault shine feebly as into the mouth of a black cavern. In itsvastness yourship floats unseen under your feet, her sails flutterinvisible above your head. The eye of God Himself—they addwith grim profanity—could not find out what work aman’s hand is doing in there; and youwould be free to callthe devil to your aid with impunity if even his malice were notdefeated by such a blind darkness.
The shores on the gulf are steep-to all round; three uninhabitedislets basking in the sunshine just outside the cloud veil, andopposite the entrance to the harbour of Sulaco, bear the name of“The Isabels.”
There is the Great Isabel; the Little Isabel, which is round;and Hermosa, which is the smallest.
That last is no more than a foot high, and about seven pacesacross, a mere flat top of a grey rock which smokes like a hotcinder after ashower, and where no man would care to venture anaked sole before sunset. On the Little Isabel an old ragged palm,with a thick bulging trunk rough with spines, a very witch amongstpalm trees, rustles a dismal bunch of dead leaves above the coarsesand.The Great Isabel has a spring of fresh water issuing from theovergrown side of a ravine. Resembling an emerald green wedge ofland a mile long, and laid flat upon the sea, it bears two foresttrees standing close together, with a wide spread of shade atthefoot of their smooth trunks. A ravine extending the whole length ofthe island is full of bushes; and presenting a deep tangled clefton the high side spreads itself out on the other into a shallowdepression abutting on a small strip of sandy shore.
From that low end of the Great Isabel the eye plunges through anopening two miles away, as abrupt as if chopped with an axe out ofthe regular sweep of the coast, right into the harbour of Sulaco.It is an oblong, lake-like piece of water. On one side theshortwooded spurs and valleys of the Cordillera come down at rightangles to the very strand; on the other the open view of the greatSulaco plain passes into the opal mystery of great distancesoverhung by dry haze. The town of Sulaco itself—tops ofwalls, a great cupola, gleams of white miradors in a vast grove oforange trees—lies between the mountains and the plain, atsome little distance from its harbour and out of the direct line ofsight from the sea.

CHAPTER TWO

The only sign of commercial activity within the harbour, visiblefrom the beach of the Great Isabel, is the square blunt end of thewooden jetty which the Oceanic Steam Navigation Company (the O.S.N.of familiar speech) had thrown over the shallow part of the baysoon after they had resolved to make of Sulaco one of their portsof call for the Republic of Costaguana. The State possesses severalharbours on its long seaboard, but except Cayta, an importantplace, all are either small and inconvenient inlets in aniron-bound coast—like Esmeralda, for instance, sixty miles tothe south—or else mere open roadsteads exposed to the windsand fretted by the surf.
Perhaps the very atmospheric conditions which had kept away themerchant fleets of bygone ages induced the O.S.N. Company toviolate the sanctuary of peace sheltering the calm existence ofSulaco. The variable airs sporting lightly with the vast semicircleof waters within the head of Azuera could not baffle the steampower of their excellent fleet. Year after year the black hulls oftheir ships had gone up and down the coast, in and out, pastAzuera, past the Isabels, past Punta Mala—disregardingeverything but the tyranny of time. Their names, the names of allmythology, became the household words of a coast that had neverbeen ruled by the gods of Olympus. The Juno was known only for hercomfortable cabins amidships, the Saturn for the geniality of hercaptain and the painted and gilt luxuriousness of her saloon,whereas the Ganymede was fitted out mainly for cattle transport,andto be avoided by coastwise passengers. The humblest Indian inthe obscurest village on the coast was familiar with the Cerberus,a little black puffer without charm or living accommodation tospeak of, whose mission was to creep inshore along the woodedbeaches close to mighty ugly rocks, stopping obligingly beforeevery cluster of huts to collect produce, down to three-poundparcels of indiarubber bound in a wrapper of dry grass.
And as they seldom failed to account for the smallest package,rarely lost abullock, and had never drowned a single passenger, thename of the O.S.N. stood very high for trustworthiness. Peopledeclared that under the Company’s care their lives andproperty were safer on the water than in their own houses onshore.
The O.S.N.‘s superintendent in Sulaco for the wholeCostaguana section of the service was very proud of hisCompany’s standing. He resumed it in a saying which was veryoften on his lips, “We never make mistakes.” To theCompany’s officers it took the form of a severe injunction,“We must make no mistakes. I’ll have no mistakes here,no matter what Smith may do at his end.”
Smith, on whom he had never set eyes in his life, was the othersuperintendent of the service, quartered some fifteen hundred milesaway from Sulaco.“Don’t talk to me of yourSmith.”
Then, calming down suddenly, he would dismiss the subject withstudied negligence.
“Smith knows no more of this continent than ababy.”
“Our excellent Senor Mitchell” for the business andofficial world of Sulaco; “Fussy Joe” for thecommanders of the Company’s ships, Captain Joseph Mitchellprided himself on his profound knowledge of men and things in thecountry—cosas de Costaguana. Amongst these last he accountedas most unfavourable to the orderly working of his Companythefrequent changes of government brought about by revolutions of themilitary type.
The political atmosphere of the Republic was generally stormy inthese days. The fugitive patriots of the defeated party had theknack of turning up again on the coast with half a steamer’sload of small arms and ammunition. Such resourcefulness CaptainMitchell considered as perfectly wonderful in view of their utterdestitution at the time of flight. He had observed that “theynever seemed to have enough change about them to pay for theirpassage ticket out of the country.” And he could speak withknowledge; for on a memorable occasion he had been called upon tosave the life of a dictator, together with the lives of a fewSulaco officials—the political chief, the director of thecustoms, and the head of police—belonging to an overturnedgovernment. Poor Senor Ribiera (such was the dictator’s name)had come pelting eighty miles over mountain tracks after the lostbattle of Socorro, in the hope of out-distancing thefatalnews—which, of course, he could not manage to do on alame mule. The animal, moreover, expired under him at the end ofthe Alameda, where the military band plays sometimes in theevenings between the revolutions. “Sir,” CaptainMitchell would pursue with portentous gravity, “the ill-timedend of that mule attracted attention to the unfortunate rider. Hisfeatures were recognized by several deserters from the Dictatorialarmy amongst the rascally mob already engaged in smashing thewindows of the Intendencia.”
Early on the morning of that day the local authorities of Sulacohad fled for refuge to the O.S.N. Company’s offices, a strongbuilding near the shore end of the jetty, leaving the town to themercies of a revolutionary rabble; and as the Dictator wasexecrated by the populace on account of the severe recruitment lawhis necessities had compelled him to enforce during the struggle,he stood a good chance of being torn to pieces. Providentially,Nostromo—invaluable fellow—with some Italian workmen,imported to work upon the National Central Railway, was at hand,and managed to snatch him away—for the time at least.Ultimately, Captain Mitchell succeeded in taking everybody off inhis own gig to one of the Company’s steamers—it was theMinerva—just then, asluck would have it, entering theharbour.
He had to lower these gentlemen at the end of a rope out of ahole in the wall at the back, while the mob which, pouring out ofthe town, had spread itself all along the shore, howled and foamedat the foot of thebuilding in front. He had to hurry them then thewhole length of the jetty; it had been a desperate dash, neck ornothing—and again it was Nostromo, a fellow in a thousand,who, at the head, this time, of the Company’s body oflightermen, held the jetty against the rushes of the rabble, thusgiving the fugitives time to reach the gig lying ready for them atthe other end with the Company’s flag at the stern. Sticks,stones, shots flew; knives, too, were thrown. Captain Mitchellexhibited willingly the longcicatrice of a cut over his left earand temple, made by a razor-blade fastened to a stick—aweapon, he explained, very much in favour with the “worstkind of nigger out here.”
Captain Mitchell was a thick, elderly man, wearing high, pointedcollars and short side-whiskers, partial to white waistcoats, andreally very communicative under his air of pompous reserve.
“These gentlemen,” he would say, staring with greatsolemnity, “had to run like rabbits, sir. I ran like a rabbitmyself. Certain forms of death are—er—distasteful toa—a—er—respectable man. They would have poundedme to death, too. A crazy mob, sir, does not discriminate. Underprovidence we owed our preservation to my Capataz de Cargadores, asthey called him in the town, a man who, when I discovered hisvalue, sir, was just the bos’n of an Italian ship, a bigGenoese ship, one of the few European ships that ever came toSulaco with a general cargo before the building of the NationalCentral. He left her on account of some very respectable friends hemade here, his own countrymen, but also, I suppose, to betterhimself. Sir, I am a pretty good judge of character. I engaged himto be the foreman of our lightermen, and caretaker of our jetty.That’s all that he was. But without him Senor Ribiera wouldhave been a dead man. This Nostromo, sir, a man absolutely abovereproach, became the terror of all the thieves in the town. We wereinfested, infested, overrun, sir, here at that time by ladrones andmatreros, thieves and murderers from the whole province. On thisoccasion they had been flocking into Sulaco for a week past. Theyhad scented the end, sir. Fifty per cent. of that murdering mobwere professional bandits from the Campo, sir, but therewasn’t one that hadn’t heard of Nostromo. As to thetown leperos, sir, the sight of his black whiskers and white teethwas enough for them. They quailed before him, sir. That’swhat the force of character will do for you.”
It could very well be said that it was Nostromo alone who savedthe lives of thesegentlemen. Captain Mitchell, on his part, neverleft them till he had seen them collapse, panting, terrified, andexasperated, but safe, on the luxuriant velvet sofas in thefirst-class saloon of the Minerva. To the very last he had beencareful to addressthe ex-Dictator as “YourExcellency.”
“Sir, I could do no other. The man was down—ghastly,livid, one mass of scratches.”
The Minerva never let go her anchor that call. Thesuperintendent ordered her out of the harbour at once. No cargocould be landed, of course, and the passengers for Sulaco naturallyrefused to go ashore. They could hear the firing and see plainlythe fight going on at the edge of the water. The repulsed mobdevoted its energies to an attack upon the Custom House, a dreary,unfinished-looking structure with many windows two hundred yardsaway from the O.S.N. Offices, and the only other building near theharbour. Captain Mitchell, after directing the commander of theMinerva to land “these gentlemen” in the first port ofcall outside Costaguana, went back in his gig to see what could bedone for the protection of the Company’s property. That andthe property of the railway were preserved by the Europeanresidents; that is, by Captain Mitchell himself and the staff ofengineers building theroad, aided by the Italian and Basque workmenwho rallied faithfully round their English chiefs. TheCompany’s lightermen, too, natives of the Republic, behavedvery well under their Capataz. An outcast lot of very mixed blood,mainly negroes, everlastingly at feud with the other customers oflow grog shops in the town, they embraced with delight thisopportunity to settle their personal scores under such favourableauspices. There was not one of them that had not, at some time orother, looked with terrorat Nostromo’srevolver poked veryclose at his face, or been otherwise daunted by Nostromo’sresolution. He was “much of a man,” their Capataz was,they said, too scornful in his temper ever to utter abuse, atireless taskmaster, and the more to be fearedbecause of hisaloofness. And behold! there he was that day, at their head,condescending to make jocular remarks to this man or the other.
Such leadership was inspiriting, and in truth all the harm themob managed to achieve was to set fire to one—onlyone—stack of railway-sleepers, which, being creosoted, burnedwell. The main attack on the railway yards, on the O.S.N. Offices,and especially on the Custom House, whose strong room, it was wellknown, contained a large treasure in silver ingots, failedcompletely. Even the little hotel kept by old Giorgio, standingalone halfway between the harbour and the town, escaped looting anddestruction, not by a miracle, but because with the safes in viewthey had neglected it at first, and afterwards found no leisure tostop. Nostromo, with his Cargadores, was pressing them too hardthen.

CHAPTER THREE

It might have been said that there he was only protecting hisown. From the first he had been admitted to live in the intimacy ofthe family of thehotel-keeper who was a countryman of his. OldGiorgio Viola, a Genoese with a shaggy white leoninehead—often called simply “the Garibaldino” (asMohammedans are called after their prophet)—was, to useCaptain Mitchell’s own words, the “respectablemarriedfriend” by whose advice Nostromo had left his ship totry for a run of shore luck in Costaguana.
The old man, full of scorn for the populace, as your austererepublican so often is, had disregarded the preliminary sounds oftrouble. He went on that day asusual pottering about the“casa” in his slippers, muttering angrily to himselfhis contempt of the non-political nature of the riot, and shrugginghis shoulders. In the end he was taken unawares by the out-rush ofthe rabble. It was too late then to remove his family, and, indeed,where could he have run to with the portly Signora Teresa and twolittle girls on that great plain? So, barricading every opening,the old man sat down sternly in the middle of the darkened cafewith an old shot-gun on his knees.His wife sat on another chair byhis side, muttering pious invocations to all the saints of thecalendar.
The old republican did not believe in saints, or in prayers, orin what he called “priest’s religion.” Libertyand Garibaldi were his divinities; buthe tolerated“superst...

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