The rest came to-morrow. When the Antoine struck the sunken iceberg she
was not more than one hundred and twenty miles from the coast of Gaspe.
She had not struck it full on, or she would have crumpled up, but had
struck and glanced, mounting the berg, and sliding away with a small
gaping wound in her side, broken internally where she had been weakest.
Her condition was one of extreme danger, and the captain was by no means
sure that he could make the land. If a storm or a heavy sea came on,
they were doomed.
As it was, with all hands at the pumps the water gained on her, and she
moaned and creaked and ached her way into the night with no surety that
she would show a funnel to the light of another day. Passengers and crew
alike worked, and the few boats were got ready to lower away when
the worst should come to the worst. Below, with the crew, the little
moneymaster of St. Saviour’s worked with an energy which had behind it
some generations of hardy qualities; and all the time he refused to be
downcast. There was something in his nature or in his philosophy after
all. He had not much of a voice, but it was lusty and full of good
feeling; and when cursing began, when a sailor even dared to curse his
baptism--the crime of crimes to a Catholic mind--Jean Jacques began to
sing a cheery song with which the habitants make vocal their labours or
their playtimes:
“A Saint-Malo, beau port de mer,
Trois gros navir’s sont arrives,
Trois gros navir’s sont arrives
Charges d’avoin’, charges de ble.
Charges d’avoin’, charges de ble:
Trois dam’s s’en vont les marchander.”
And so on through many verses, with a heartiness that was a good
antidote to melancholy, even though it was no specific for a shipwreck.
It played its part, however; and when Jean Jacques finished it, he
plunged into that other outburst of the habitant’s gay spirits, ‘Bal
chez Boule’:
“Bal chez Boule, bal chez Boule,
The vespers o’er, we’ll away to that;
With our hearts so light, and our feet so gay,
We’ll dance to the tune of ‘The Cardinal’s Hat’
The better the deed, the better the day
Bal chez Boule, bal chez Boule!”
And while Jean Jacques worked “like a little French pony,” as they say
in Canada of every man with the courage to do hard things in him, he
did not stop to think that the scanty life-belts had all been taken,
and that he was a very poor swimmer indeed: for, as a child, he had been
subject to cramp, and so had made the Beau Cheval River less his friend
than would have been useful now.
He realized it, however, soon after daybreak, when, within a few hundred
yards of the shores of Gaspe, to which the good Basque captain had been
slowly driving the Antoine all night, there came the cry, “All hands
on deck!” and “Lower the boats!” for the Antoine’s time had come, and
within a hand-reach of shore almost she found the end of her rickety
life. Not more than three-fourths of the passengers and crew were got
into the boats. Jean Jacques was not one of these; but he saw Carmen
Dolores and her father safely bestowed, though in different boats. To
the girl’s appeal to him to come he gave a nod of assent, and said he
would get in at the last moment; but this he did not do, pushing into
the boat instead a crying lad of fifteen, who said he was afraid to die.
So it was that Jean Jacques took to the water side by side with the
Basque captain, when the Antoine groaned and shook, and then grew still,
and presently, with some dignity, dipped her nose into the shallow sea
and went down.
“The rest of the story to-morrow,” Jean Jacques had said when the vessel
struck the iceberg the night before; and so it was.
The boat in which Carmen had been placed was swamped not far from shore,
but she managed to lay hold of a piece of drifting wreckage, and began
to fight steadily and easily landward. Presently she was aware, however,
of a man struggling hard some little distance away to the left of her,
and from the tousled hair shaking in the water she was sure that it was
Jean Jacques.
So it proved to be; and thus it was that, at his last gasp almost, when
he felt he could keep up no longer, the wooden seat to which Carmen
clung came to his hand, and a word of cheer from her drew his head up
with what was almost a laugh.
“To think of this!” he said presently when he was safe, with her
swimming beside him without support, for the wooden seat would not
sustain the weight of two. “To think that it is you who saves me!” he
again declared eloquently, as they made the shore in comparative ease,
for she was a fine swimmer.
“It is the rest of the story,” he said with great cheerfulness and
aplomb as they stood on the shore in the morning sun, shoeless,
coatless, but safe: and she understood.
There was nothing else for him to do. The usual process of romance had
been reversed. He had not saved her life, she had saved his. The least
that he could do was to give her shelter at the Manor Cartier yonder
at St. Saviour’s, her and, if need be, her father. Human gratitude
must have play. It was so strong in this case that it alone could have
overcome the Norman caution of Jean Jacques, and all his worldly wisdom
(so much in his own eyes). Added thereto was the thing which had been
greatly stirred in him at the instant the Antoine struck; and now he
kept picturing Carmen in the big living-room and the big bedroom of the
house by the mill, where was the comfortable four-poster which had come
from the mansion of the last Baron of Beaugard down by St. Laurent.
Three days after the shipwreck of the Antoine, and as soon as sufficient
finery could be got in Quebec, it was accomplished, the fate of Jean
Jacques. How proud he was to open his cheque-book before the young
Spanish maid, and write in cramped, characteristic hand a cheque for
a hundred dollars or so at a time! A moiety of this money was given
to Sebastian Dolores, who could scarcely believe his good fortune. A
situation was got for him by the help of a good abbe at Quebec, who
was touched by the tale of the wreck of the Antoine, and by the no less
wonderful tale of the refugees of Spain, who naturally belonged to the
true faith which “feared God and honoured the King.” Sebastian Dolores
was grateful for the post offered him, though he would rather have gone
to St. Saviour’s with his daughter, for he had lost the gift of work,
and he desired peace after war. In other words, he had that fatal trait
of those who strive to make the world better by talk and violence, the
vice of indolence.
But when Jean Jacques and his handsome bride started for St. Saviour’s,
the new father-in-law did not despair of following soon. He would
greatly have enjoyed the festivities which, after all, did follow the
home-coming of Jean Jacques Barbille and his Spanische; for while they
lacked enthusiasm because Carmen was a foreigner, the romance of the
story gave the whole proceedings a spirit and interest which spread into
adjoining parishes: so that people came to mass from forty miles away to
see the pair who had been saved from the sea.
And when the Quebec newspapers found their way into the parish, with a
thrilling account of the last hours of the Antoine; and of Jean Jacques’
chivalrous act in refusing to enter a boat to save himself, though he
was such a bad swimmer and was in danger of cramp; and how he sang Bal
chez Boule while the men worked at the pumps; they permitted the apres
noces of M’sieu’ and Madame Jean Jacques Barbille to be as brilliant
as could be, with the help of lively improvisation. Even speech-making
occurred again in an address of welcome some days later. This was
followed by a feast of Spanish cakes and meats made by the hands of
Carmen Dolores, “the lady saved from the sea”--as they called her; not
knowing that she had saved herself, and saved Jean Jacques as well. It
was not quite to Jean Jacques’ credit that he did not set this error
right, and tell the world the whole exact truth.