AT SEA, _May, 1877._
For two days now, the great sinister voice had been groaning round us.
The sky was very dark. It was like the sky in that picture in which
Poussin has tried to paint the deluge; only all the clouds were moving,
tormented by a wind that awakened fear.
And this great voice continued to swell, growing deeper, incessant; it
was like a fury which was becoming exasperated. In our progress we ran
into enormous masses of water which came on in white-crested volutes and
passed as if in pursuit one of another; they rushed upon us with their
full force; and then there were mighty shocks and great dull sounds.
Sometimes the _Médée_ reared, mounted over them, as if she, too, in
turn, was seized with fury against them. And then she descended again,
head first, into the treacherous hollows which lurked behind; she
touched the bottom of these kinds of valleys which opened rapidly
between high walls of water; and then made haste to climb once more, to
escape from between these curved, glistening, greenish walls, which
threatened to overwhelm her.
An icy rain streaked the air with long white arrows, whipping, stinging,
like the blows of a lash. We had drawn nearer the north, in advancing
along the Chinese coast, and the unexpected cold bit into us.
Aloft, in the rigging, they were trying to take in the topsails already
close hauled; the stormsail was already hard to carry and now, it was
necessary, at any cost, to make head against the wind, on account of the
doubtful countries which lay behind us.
For two long hours the topmen were at work, blinded, lashed, stung by
all that fell over them, sheets of spray from the sea, sheets of rain
and hail from the sky; trying, with hands cramped with cold and
bleeding, to take in the stiff wet canvas which bellied in the furious
wind.
But one saw nothing, heard nothing.
It was difficult enough merely to prevent oneself from being swept away,
merely to hold fast to all these moving, wet and slippery things--but
they had besides to work high up in the air on their yards which,
swaying, had sudden, irregular movements, like the last beating of wings
of a great wounded bird in its death-throes.
Cries of pain came from aloft, from this kind of hanging bunch of human
grapes. Cries of men, hoarse cries, more ominous than those of women,
because one is less accustomed to hear them; cries of horrible
suffering: a hand caught somewhere, fingers jammed, from which the flesh
was torn as they were drawn away--or maybe, some unfortunate fellow,
less strong than the others, numbed with cold, who felt that he could
hold out no longer, that his head was beginning to swim, that he was
about to let go and fall. And the others, out of pity, bound him and
tried to lower him to the deck.
For two hours this lasted; they were exhausted, beat; flesh and blood
could do no more.
Then they were ordered down, and in their place were sent up the men of
the larboard watch, who had been resting and were not so cold.
They came down, pale, wet, with icy water streaming down their chest and
down their back, hands bleeding, nails torn, teeth chattering. For two
days they had lived in water, had scarcely eaten, had scarcely slept,
and their vitality was at an ebb.
It is this long watching, this long labour in the damp cold, which are
the true horrors of the sea. Often poor fellows die, who, before they
utter their last cry, their last sob of agony, have remained for days
and nights wet through, dirty, covered with a muddy coating of cold
sweat and salt, with a kind of veneer of death.
And still the wind increased. There were times when it whistled, shrill
and strident, as in a paroxysm of evil exasperation; and others again,
when its voice became deep, cavernous, powerful as the immense sounds of
cataclysm. And we continued to leap from wave to wave, and, save for the
sea which preserved still its unholy whiteness of foam and froth,
everything was becoming darker. A glacial twilight was falling upon us;
behind these dark curtains, behind all these masses of water which
climbed to the sky, the sun had disappeared at its due hour; it
abandoned us, and left us to find our way as best we could in the
darkness. . . .
Yves had climbed with the larboard men into the disarray of the rigging,
and then I kept my eyes aloft, blinded myself also, and only seeing
momentarily now the human cluster in the air.
And, suddenly, in a lurch more violent than any that had gone before,
the silhouette of this group was broken brusquely and changed its form;
two bodies broke away from it and fell with outspread arms into the
roaring volutes of the sea, while another crashed on the deck, without a
cry, falling as a man might who was already dead.
"The foot-rope broken again!" said the officer of the watch, stamping
his foot with rage. "Some rotten rope which they gave us in that damned
port of Brest! Big Kerboul in the sea. And the other one, who was he?"
Others, clinging to ropes, swung for some moments in the void and then
climbed, hand over hand, very rapidly, as monkeys might.
I recognized Yves as one of the climbers, and breathed again.
They threw out life-buoys as a matter of course for those who were in
the sea. But what was the use? The hope rather was that we should not
see them reappear, for if we did, on account of the danger of getting
broadside on to the rollers, we should not have been able to stop to
rescue them and should have needed the horrible courage to abandon them.
But a roll was called of those who remained in order to find out the
name of the second who had been lost: he was a very steady little
apprentice, whom his mother, a widow well on in years, had commended to
the care of the boatswain before the departure from France.
The other, the one who had crashed on the deck, they carried below as
best they could, with great difficulty, letting him fall again on the
way; and lay him in the infirmary which had become a foul sink in which
swirled two feet of filthy, dark water, with broken bottles and odours
of all sorts of spilt remedies. Not even a place where he might die in
peace, for the sea had no pity on the sufferer; it continued to make him
dance, to toss him more than ever. A kind of sound came now from his
throat, a rattling which persisted for some little time, lost in the
great uproar of things. One might have been able to succour him perhaps,
to prolong his agony, with a little calm. But he died there quickly
enough, in the hands of the sick-berth attendants who had become stupid
with fear, and tried to make him eat.
_Eight o'clock at night._ At this time the responsibility of the watch
was heavy and it was my turn to take it.
We carried on as best we might. We could see nothing now. We were in the
midst of so much noise that the voices of the men seemed no longer to
have any sound; the blasts of the whistles, blown with full might, came
faintly, like the flute-like pipings of very small birds.
We heard terrible blows struck against the sides of the ship, as by some
enormous battering-ram. And everywhere and always great hollows opened,
gaping wide; we felt ourselves being hurled into them, head lowered, in
the pitch darkness. And then a force struck us with a brutal strength,
carrying us high into the air, and the Médée vibrated in its whole
being, as it were, like a monstrous drum. In vain then we tried to hold
fast; we were forced to let go and quickly cling more strongly to
something else, shutting our mouths and eyes as we did so, because we
knew by instinct, without seeing, that it was the moment when a great
mass of water would sweep through the air and maybe sweep us away with
it.
And this went on continuously, these headlong plunges, followed by these
leaps with their accompanying terrifying drum-like sounds.
And, after each of these shocks came again the streaming of water
pouring in from all sides; the sound of a thousand things breaking, a
thousand fragments rolling in the darkness. And all this prolonged in a
sinister trail the horror of the first concussion.
And the topmen and my poor Yves, what were they doing aloft? We could
see the masts, the yards, now and then in the darkness, in silhouette,
when the smarting pain caused by the hail allowed us to open our eyes
and look; we could see the shapes of the great crosses, with double
arms, after the fashion of Russian crosses, rocking in the darkness with
movements of distress, with crazy gestures.
"Bring them down," said the Commander, who preferred the danger of the
unfurled sail to the fear of losing more of his men.
I gave the order quickly, with a feeling of relief. But Yves, from
aloft, replied to me with the help of his whistle, that they had almost
finished; that they had only to replace one gasket which was broken, by
a makeshift knot, and then they would all come down, having taken in
their sail and completed their work.
Afterwards when they were all down I breathed more freely. No one now
aloft, nothing more to be done up there, nothing to be done now but to
watch and wait. Then it seemed to me that the weather was almost fair,
that it was almost comfortable on this bridge, now that I was relieved
of the heavy weight of my anxiety.