... It was five o'clock in the afternoon: the horizon beyond the harbor
was turning lemon-color;--and a thin warm wind began to come in weak
puffs from the south-west,--the first breaths to break the immobility of
the tropical air. Sails of vessels becalmed at the entrance of the bay
commenced to flap lazily: they might belly after sundown.
The _La Guayra_ was in port, lying well out: her mountainous iron mass
rising high above the modest sailing craft moored in her
vicinity,--barks and brigantines and brigs and schooners and
barkentines. She had lain before the town the whole afternoon,
surrounded by the entire squadron of canots; and the boys were still
circling about her flanks, although she had got up steam and was lifting
her anchor. They had been very lucky, indeed, that afternoon,--all the
little canotiers;--and even many yellow lads, not fortunate enough to
own canoes, had swum out to her in hope of sharing the silver shower
falling from her saloon-deck. Some of these, tired out, were resting
themselves by sitting on the slanting cables of neighboring ships.
Perched naked thus,--balancing in the sun, against the blue of sky or
water, their slender bodies took such orange from the mellowing light as
to seem made of some self-luminous substance,--flesh of sea-fairies....
Suddenly the _La Guayra_ opened her steam-throat and uttered such a moo
that all the mornes cried out for at least a minute after;--and the
little fellows perched on the cables of the sailing craft tumbled into
the sea at the sound and struck out for shore. Then the water all at
once burst backward in immense frothing swirls from beneath the stem of
the steamer; and there arose such a heaving as made all the little
canoes dance. The _La Guayra_ was moving. She moved slowly at first,
making a great fuss as she turned round: then she began to settle down
to her journey very majestically,--just making the water pitch a little
behind her, as the hem of a woman's robe tosses lightly at her heels
while she walks.
And, contrary to custom, some of the canoes followed after her. A dark
handsome man, wearing an immense Panama hat, and jewelled rings upon his
hands, was still throwing money; and still the boys dived for it. But
only one of each crew now plunged; for, though the _La Guayra_ was yet
moving slowly, it was a severe strain to follow her, and there was no
time to be lost.
The captain of the little band--black Maximilien, ten years old, and his
comrade Stéphane--nicknamed _Ti Chabin_, because of his bright hair,--a
slim little yellow boy of eleven--led the pursuit, crying always,
"_Encò, Missié,--encò!_"...
The _La Guayra_ had gained fully two hundred yards when the handsome
passenger made his final largess,--proving himself quite an expert in
flinging coin. The piece fell far short of the boys, but near enough to
distinctly betray a yellow shimmer as it twirled to the water. That was
gold!
In another minute the leading canoe had reached the spot, the other
canotiers voluntarily abandoning the quest,--for it was little use to
contend against Maximilien and Stéphane, who had won all the canoe
contests last 14th of July. Stéphane, who was the better diver,
plunged.
He was much longer below than usual, came up at quite a distance, panted
as he regained the canoe, and rested his arms upon it. The water was so
deep there, he could not reach the coin the first time, though he could
see it: he was going to try again,--it was gold, sure enough.
--"_Fouinq! ça fond içitt!_" he gasped.
Maximilien felt all at once uneasy. Very deep water, and perhaps sharks.
And sunset not far off! The _La Guayra_ was diminishing in the offing.
--"_Boug-là 'lé fai nou néyé!--laissé y, Stéphane!_" he cried.
(The fellow wants to drown us. _Laissé_--leave it alone.)
But Stéphane had recovered breath, and was evidently resolved to try
again. It was gold!
--"_Mais ça c'est lò!_"
--"_Assez, non!_" screamed Maximilien. "_Pa plongé ncò, moin ka di ou!
Ah! foute!_"...
Stéphane had dived again!
... And where were the others? "_Bon-Dié, gadé oti yo yé!_" They were
almost out of sight,--tiny specks moving shoreward.... The _La Guayra_
now seemed no bigger than the little packet running between St. Pierre
and Fort-de-France.
Up came Stéphane again, at a still greater distance than
before,--holding high the yellow coin in one hand. He made for the
canoe, and Maximilien paddled towards him and helped him in. Blood was
streaming from the little diver's nostrils, and blood colored the water
he spat from his mouth.
--"_Ah! moin té ka di ou laissé y!_" cried Maximilien, in anger and
alarm.... "_Gàdé, godé sang-à ka coulé nans nez ou,--nans bouche
ou!... Mi oti lézautt!_"
_Lézautt_, the rest, were no longer visible.
--"_Et mi oti nou yé!_" cried Maximilien again. They had never ventured
so far from shore.
But Stéphane answered only, "_C'est lò!_" For the first time in his
life he held a piece of gold in his fingers. He tied it up in a little
rag attached to the string fastened about his waist,--a purse of his own
invention,--and took up his paddles, coughing the while and spitting
crimson.
--"_Mi! mi!--mi oti nou yé!_" reiterated Maximilien. "_Bon-Dié!_ look
where we are!"
The Place had become indistinct;--the light-house, directly behind half
an hour earlier, now lay well south: the red light had just been
kindled. Seaward, in advance of the sinking orange disk of the sun, was
the _La Guayra_, passing to the horizon. There was no sound from the
shore: about them a great silence had gathered,--the Silence of seas,
which is a fear. Panic seized them: they began to paddle furiously.
But St. Pierre did not appear to draw any nearer. Was it only an effect
of the dying light, or were they actually moving towards the
semicircular cliffs of Fond-Corré?... Maximilien began to cry. The
little chabin paddled on,--though the blood was still trickling over his
breast.