beard of flame diminished quickly; then the pile fell inwards with a soft, cindery sound, and sent a great tree of sparks upwards that leaned away and drifted downwind. The boys lay, panting like dogs.
Ralph raised his head off his forearms.
“That was no good.”
Roger spat efficiently into the hot dust.
“What d’you mean?”
“There wasn’t any smoke. Only flame.”
Piggy had settled himself in a space between two rocks, and sat with the conch on his knees.
“We haven’t made a fire,” he said, “what’s any use. We couldn’t keep a fire like that going, not if we tried.”
“A fat lot you tried,” said Jack contemptuously. “You just sat.”
“We used his specs,” said Simon, smearing a black cheek with his forearm. “He helped that way.”
“I got the conch,” said Piggy indignantly. “You let me speak!”
“The conch doesn’t count on top of the mountain,” said Jack, “so you shut up.”
“I got the conch in my hand.”
“Put on green branches,” said Maurice. “That’s the best way to make smoke.”
“I got the conch—”
Jack turned fiercely.
“You shut up!”
Piggy wilted. Ralph took the conch from him and looked round the circle of boys.
“We’ve got to have special people for looking after the fire. Any day there may be a ship out there”—he waved his arm at the taut wire of the horizon—“and if we have a signal going they’ll come and take us off. And another thing. We ought to have more rules. Where the conch is, that’s a meeting. The same up here as down there.”
They assented. Piggy opened his mouth to speak, caught Jack’s eye and shut it again.
Jack held out his hands for the conch and stood up, holding the delicate thing carefully in his sooty hands.
“I agree with Ralph. We’ve got to have rules and obey them. After all, we’re not savages. We’re English, and the English are best at everything. So we’ve got to do the right things.”
He turned to Ralph.
“Ralph, I’ll split up the choir—my hunters, that is—into groups, and we’ll be responsible for keeping the fire going—”
This generosity brought a spatter of applause from the boys, so that Jack grinned at them, then waved the conch for silence.
“We’ll let the fire burn out now. Who would see smoke at night-time, anyway? And we can start the fire again whenever we like. Altos, you can keep the fire going this week, and trebles the next—”
The assembly assented gravely.
“And we’ll be responsible for keeping a lookout too. If we see a ship out there”—they followed the direction of his bony arm with their eyes—“we’ll put green branches on. Then there’ll be more smoke.”
They gazed intently at the dense blue of the horizon, as if a little silhouette might appear there at any moment. The sun in the west was a drop of burning gold that slid nearer and nearer the sill of the world. All at once they were aware of the evening as the end of light and warmth.
Roger took the conch and looked round at them gloomily.
“I’ve been watching the sea. There hasn’t been the trace of a ship. Perhaps we’ll never be rescued.”
A murmur rose and swept away. Ralph took back the conch.
“I said before we’ll be rescued sometime. We’ve just got to wait, that’s all.”
Daring, indignant, Piggy took the conch.
“That’s what I said! I said about our meetings and things and then you said shut up—”
His voice lifted into the whine of virtuous recrimination. They stirred and began to shout him down.
“You said you wanted a small fire and you been and built a pile like a hayrick. If I say anything,” cried Piggy, with bitter realism, “you say shut up; but if Jack or Maurice or Simon—”
He paused in the tumult, standing, looking beyond them and down the unfriendly side of the mountain to the great patch where they had found dead wood. Then he laughed so strangely that they were hushed, looking at the flash of his spectacles in astonishment. They followed his gaze to find the sour joke.
“You got your small fire all right.”
Smoke was rising here and there among the creepers that festooned the dead or dying trees. As they watched, a flash of fire appeared at the root of one wisp, and then the smoke thickened. Small flames stirred at the trunk of a tree and crawled away through leaves and brushwood, dividing and increasing. One patch touched a tree trunk and scrambled up like a bright squirrel. The smoke increased, sifted, rolled outwards. The squirrel leapt on the wings of the wind and clung to another standing tree, eating downwards. Beneath the dark canopy of leaves and smoke the fire laid hold on the forest and began to gnaw. Acres of black and yellow smoke rolled steadily toward the sea. At the sight of the flames and the irresistible course of the fire, the boys broke into shrill, excited cheering. The flames, as though they were a kind of wild life, crept as a jaguar creeps on its belly toward a line of birch-like saplings that fledged an outcrop of the pink rock. They flapped at the first of the trees, and the branches grew a brief foliage of fire. The heart of flame leapt nimbly across the gap between the trees and then went swinging and flaring along the whole row of them. Beneath the capering boys a quarter of a mile square of forest was savage with smoke and flame. The separate noises of the fire merged into a drum-roll that seemed to shake the mountain.
“You got your small fire all right.”
Startled, Ralph realized that the boys were falling still and silent, feeling the beginnings of awe at the power set free below them. The knowledge and the awe made him savage.
“Oh, shut up!”
“I got the conch,” said Piggy, in a hurt voice. “I got a right to speak.”
They looked at him with eyes that lacked interest in what they saw, and cocked ears at the drum-roll of the fire. Piggy glanced nervously into hell and cradled the conch.
“We got to let that burn out now. And that was our firewood.”
He licked his lips.
“There ain’t nothing we can do. We ought to be more careful. I’m scared—”
Jack dragged his eyes away from the fire.
“You’re always scared. Yah—Fatty!”
“I got the conch,” said Piggy bleakly. He turned to Ralph. “I got the conch, ain’t I Ralph?”
Unwillingly Ralph
