The boat _Emilie_ from Porto-Vecchio, on which I had made the mournful
voyage to the Lavezzi Islands, was a small, old, half-decked, customs'
vessel, with no shelter available from the wind, the waves, nor even
the rain, save in a small, tar covered deckhouse, hardly big enough for
a table and two bunks. It was unbelievable what the sailors had to put
up with in bad weather. Their faces were streaming, and their soaked
tunics steaming, as if in the wash. In the depths of winter, these
unfortunate souls spent whole days like this, crouching on their
drenched seats, shivering in the unhealthy wet and cold, even at
nights. Obviously, a fire couldn't be lit on board, and it was often
difficult to make the shore.... Well, not one of these men complained.
I always saw the same calmness and good humour in them, even in the
most severe weather. And yet, what a gloomy life these customs'
mariners led.
They were months away from going home, tacking and reaching around
those dangerous coasts. For nourishment they had to make do mainly with
mouldy bread and wild onions; they never once tasted wine or meat;
these were expensive items and they only earned five hundred francs a
year. Yes, five hundred francs a year. But it didn't seem to bother
them! Everybody there seemed somehow content. Aft of the deckhouse,
there was a tub full of rain water for the crew to drink, and I recall
that after the final gulp went down, every last one of them would
finish off his mug with a satisfied, "Ah!..."; a comic yet endearing
indication of all being well with him.
Palombo, a small, tanned, thick-set man from Bonifacio was the
merriest, and the most well at ease of all of them. He was always
singing, even in the very worst weather. When the seas were high, when
the sky was overcast, dark, and hail filled, everyone was all agog,
sniffing the air, their hands cupped over their ears, listening and
watching out for the next squall. Even in this great silence of anxiety
on board, the voice of Palombo would begin the refrain:
No, dear Sir,
It will cause a stir.
Wise Lisette will stay,
And never ever go away....
And the gust could blow, rattle the tackle, shake and flood the boat,
still the customs' man's song continued, rocking like a seagull on the
crests of the waves. Sometimes the wind's accompaniment was too loud,
and the words were drowned, but between each breaking wave, in the
cascade of draining water, the little ditty was heard once again:
Wise Lisette will stay,
And never ever go away
One day, when it was blowing and raining hard, I didn't hear him. This
was so unusual, that I was moved to emerge through the boathouse hatch
and shout:
--Hey! Palombo, you're not singing, then?
Palombo didn't reply. He was lying apparently motionless under his
bench. I went up to him; his teeth were chattering and his whole body
was trembling feverishly.
--He's got a pountoura, his comrades miserably informed me.
This was what they called a stitch in the side, pleurisy. I had never
witnessed a more miserable sight. There was an overwhelming, leaden
sky, the boat had water cascading everywhere, the luckless, fevered man
was wrapped in an old rubber coat which glistened like a seal's skin.
The cold, the wind, and the jolting of the waves, soon made his
condition worse. He became delirious; something had to be done.
After doing all we could, and as evening was approaching, we put into a
small, silent, lifeless port, only animated by circling seagulls. The
beach was shut in by steep-sided, high rocks, impassable scrub and
sombre, unseasonably green shrubs. Nearby, close to the sea there was a
custom's post, housed in a small white building with grey shutters. It
was given a rather sinister air, this official outpost, numbered like
the cap on a uniform, by its position, in the middle of such a deserted
spot. We took the ailing Palombo down to it, though it was a despairing
sanctuary for a sick man. We found the custom's man eating by the
fireside with his wife and children. Everybody had a gaunt and
jaundiced look, and they were pop-eyed and feverish. The young mother,
suckling a baby, shivered as she spoke to us.
--It's a terrible post, the Inspector barely whispered to me. We have
to replace our Customs' men here every two years. The marsh fever eats
them away....
Nevertheless, the main thing was to get hold of a doctor. There wasn't
one this side of Sartène, many kilometres away. What could we do? Our
mariners were done and could do no more, and it was too far to send one
of the children. Then the woman, leaning outdoors, called:
--Cecco!...Cecco!
And in came a large, well-built chap, a typical specimen of a poacher
or Corsican bandit, with his brown wool cap and his goatskin sailors
jacket. I had already noticed him, as we disembarked; he was sitting in
front of the door chewing his red pipe, with a rifle between his legs.
He made off as we came near; I don't know why. Perhaps he thought we
had gendarmes with us. When he entered, the Customs' woman blushed.
--He's my cousin, she told us. There's no danger that this one will get
lost in the Corsican scrub.
Then, she whispered something to him, indicating the sick man. The man
bent forward but said nothing. Then he left, whistled his dog, and was
gone, leaping from rock to rock with his long legs, with the rifle on
his shoulder.
The children, who seemed terrified by the Inspector, quickly scoffed
down their dinner of chestnuts and white Corsican goat cheese. Then
there was the inevitable water; never anything but water on the table.
And yet, a sip of wine would have really done the children some good.
Oh, what complete and utter misery! After a while, their mother saw
them off to bed, while their father lit his lantern and went out to
check the coast. We stayed by the fireside looking after the invalid,
who was tossing and turning on his pallet, as if he was still at sea
being buffeted by the waves. We warmed up some stones to put on his
side to ease his pleurisy. Once or twice the hapless man recognised me
as I approached his bed and put out his hand with great difficulty by
way of thanks. His broad hand was as rough and hot as one of the bricks
from the fire.
It was a miserable vigil! Outside, as night fell, the bad weather
picked up again, and there was a crash, a rumble, and a great spurt of
spray, as the battle between rocks and water broke out again. From time
to time, the gusts from out at sea blew into the bay and enveloped the
house. The flames suddenly flared and lit up the blank faces of the
sailors around the fireplace. They had the calm expression of those who
routinely experience wide open spaces and horizons. Occasionally,
Palombo moaned gently, and their eyes would turn towards the wretched
place where the poor man was dying, far from home, and beyond help.
Only their breathing and sighing could be heard. This was the only
reaction you would get out of these workmen of the sea who were just as
patient and accepting of their own misfortune. No rebellions, no
strikes. Only sighs. Just sighs. And yet, perhaps I'm kidding myself.
One of them, on his way to putting wood on the fire, whispered almost
apologetically to me:
--You see, monsieur, there can be much suffering in our line of work....