CHAPTER XI

"FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE"

When Ferragut left Barcelona the wound in his shoulder was already

nearly healed. The rotund negative given by the captain and his pilot

to the questions of the Carabineers freed them from further annoyance.

They "knew nothing,--had seen nothing." The captain received with

feigned indifference the news that the dead body of a man had been

found that very night,--a man who appeared to be a German, but without

papers, without anything that assured his identification,--on a dock

some distance from the berth occupied by the _Mare Nostrum_. The

authorities had not considered it worth while to investigate further,

classifying it as a simple struggle among refugees.

Provisioning the troops of the Orient obliged Ferragut, in the months

following, to sail as part of a convoy. A cipher dispatch would

sometimes summon him to Marseilles, at others to an Atlantic

port,--Saint-Nazaire, Quiberon, or Brest.

Every few days ships of different class and nationality were arriving.

There were those that displayed their aristocratic origin by the fine

line of the prow, the slenderness of the smokestacks and the still

white color of their upper decks: they were like the high-priced steeds

that war had transformed into simple beasts of battle. Former

mail-packets, swift racers of the waves, had descended to the humble

service of transport boats. Others, black and dirty, with the pitchy

plaster of hasty reparation and a consumptive smokestack on an enormous

hull, plowed along, coughing smoke, spitting ashes, panting with the

jangle of old iron. The flags of the Allies and those of the neutral

navies waved on the different ships. Reuniting, they formed a convoy in

the broad bay. There were fifteen or twenty steamers, sometimes thirty,

which had to navigate together, adjusting their different speeds to a

common pace. The cargo boats, merchant steamers that made only a few

knots an hour, exacted a desperate slowness of the rest of the convoy.

The _Mare Nostrum_ had to sail at half speed, making its captain very

impatient with these monotonous and dangerous peregrinations, extending

over weeks and weeks.

Before setting out, Ferragut, like all the other captains, would

receive sealed and stamped orders. These were from the Commodore of the

convoy,--the commander of a torpedo destroyer, or a simple officer of

the Naval Reserve in charge of a motor trawler armed with a quickfiring

gun.

The steamers would begin belching smoke and hoisting anchors without

knowing whither they were going. The official document was opened only

at the moment of departure. Ulysses would break the seals and examine

the paper, understanding with facility its formal language, written in

a common cipher. The first thing that he would look out for was the

port of destination, then, the order of formation. They were to sail in

single file or in a double row, according to the number of vessels. The

_Mare Nostrum_, represented by a certain number, was to navigate

between two other numbers which were those of the nearest steamers.

They were to keep between them a distance of about five hundred yards;

it was important that they should not come any nearer in a moment of

carelessness, nor prolong the line so that they would be out of sight

of the watchful guardians.

At the end, the general instructions for all the voyages were repeated

with a laconic brevity that would have made other men, not accustomed

to look death in the face, turn pale. In case of a submarine attack,

the transports that carried guns were to come out from the line and aid

the patrol of armed vessels, attacking the enemy. The others were to

continue their course tranquilly, without paying any attention to the

attack. If the boat in front of them or the one following was

torpedoed, they were not to stop to give it aid. The torpedo boats and

"chaluteros" were charged with saving the wrecked ship if it were

possible. The duty of the transport was always to go forward, blind and

deaf, without getting out of line, without stopping, until it had

delivered at the terminal port the fortune stowed in its holds.

This march in convoy imposed by the submarine war represented a leap

backward in the life of the sea. It recalled to Ferragut's mind the

sailing fleets of other centuries, escorted by navies in line,

punctuating their course by incessant battles, and the remote voyages

of the galleons of the Indies, setting forth from Seville in fleets

when bound for the coast of the New World.

The double file of black hulks with plumes of smoke advanced very

placidly in fair weather. When the day was gray, the sea choppy, the

sky and the atmosphere foggy, they would scatter and leap about like a

troop of dark and frightened lambs. The guardians of the convoy, three

little boats that were going at full speed, were the vigilant mastiffs

of this marine herd, preceding it in order to explore the horizon,

remaining behind it, or marching beside it in order to keep the

formation intact. Their lightness and their swiftness enabled them to

make prodigious bounds over the waves. A girdle of smoke curled itself

around their double smokestacks. Their prows when not hidden were

expelling cascades of foam, sometimes even showing the dripping

forefoot of the keel.

At night time they would all travel with few lights, simple lanterns at

the prow, as warning to the one just ahead, and another one at the

stern, to point out the route to the ship following. These faint lights

could scarcely be seen. Oftentimes the helmsman would suddenly have to

turn his course and demand slackened speed behind, seeing the

silhouette of the boat ahead looming up in the darkness. A few moments

of carelessness and it would come in on the prow with a deadly ram.

Upon slowing down, the captain always looked behind uneasily, fearing

in turn to collide with his following ship.

They were all thinking about the invisible submarines. From time to

time would sound the report of the guns; the convoy's escort was

shooting and shooting, going from one side to the other with agile

evolutions. The enemy had fled like wolves before the barking of

watch-dogs. On other occasions it would prove a false alarm, and the

shells would wound the desert water with a lashing of steel.

There was an enemy more troublesome than the tempest, more terrible

than the torpedoes, that disorganized the convoys. It was the fog,

thick and pale as the white of an egg, enshrouding the vessels, making

them navigate blindly in full daylight, filling space with the useless

moaning of their sirens, not letting them see the water which sustained

them nor the nearby boats that might emerge at any moment from the

blank atmosphere, announcing their apparition with a collision and a

tremendous, deadly crash. In this way the merchant fleets had to

proceed entire days together and when, at the end, they found

themselves free from this wet blanket, breathing with satisfaction as

though awaking from a nightmare, another ashy and nebulous wall would

come advancing over the waters enveloping them anew in its night. The

most valorous and calm men would swear upon seeing the endless bar of

mist closing off the horizon.

Such voyages were not at all to Ferragut's taste. Marching in line like

a soldier, and having to conform to the speed of these miserable little

boats irritated him greatly, and it made him still more wrathful to

find himself obliged to obey the Commodore of a convoy who frequently

was nobody but an old sailor of masterful character.

Because of all this he announced to the maritime authorities, on one of

his arrivals at Marseilles, his firm intention of not sailing any more

in this fashion. He had had enough with four such expeditions which

were all well enough for timid captains incapable of leaving a port

unless they always had in sight an escort of torpedo-boats, and whose

crews at the slightest occurrence would try to lower the lifeboats and

take refuge on the coast. He believed that he would be more secure

going alone, trusting to his skill, with no other aid than his profound

knowledge of the routes of the Mediterranean.

His petition was granted. He was the owner of a vessel and they were

afraid of losing his coöperation when means of transportation were

growing so very scarce. Besides, the _Mare Nostrum_, on account of its

high speed, deserved individual employment in extraordinary and rapid

service.

He remained in Marseilles some weeks waiting for a cargo of howitzers,

and meandered as usual around the Mediterranean capital. He passed the

evenings on the terrace of a cafe of the _Cannebière_. The recollection

of von Kramer always loomed up in his mind at such times. "I wonder if

they have shot him!..." He wished to know, but his investigations did

not meet with much success. War Councils avoid publicity regarding

their acts of justice. A Marseilles merchant, a friend of Ferragut,

seemed to recall that some months before a German spy, surprised in the

harbor, had been executed. Three lines, no more, in the newspapers,

gave an account of his death. They said that he was an officer.... And

his friend went on talking about the war news while Ulysses was

thinking that the executed man could not have been any one else but von

Kramer.

On that same afternoon he had an encounter. While passing through the

street of _Saint-Ferreol_, looking at the show windows, the cries of

several conductors of cabs and automobiles who could not manage to

drive their vehicles through the narrow and crowded streets, attracted

his attention. In one carriage he saw a blonde lady with her back to

him, accompanied by two officers of the English navy. Immediately he

thought of Freya.... Her hat, her gown, everything about her

personality, was so very distinctive. And yet, when the coach had

passed on without his being able to get a glimpse of the face of the

stranger, the image of the adventuress persisted in his mind.

Finally he became very much irritated with himself, because of this

absurd resemblance suspected without any reason whatever. How could

that English-woman with the two officers be Freya?... How could a

German refugee in Barcelona manage to slip into France where she was

undoubtedly known by the military police?... And still more

exasperating was his suspicion that this resemblance might have

awakened a remnant of the old love which made him see Freya in every

blonde woman.

At nine o'clock the following morning, while the captain was in his

stateroom dressing to go ashore, Toni opened the door.

His face was scowling and timid at the same time, as though he had some

bad news to give.

"That creature is here," he said laconically.

Ferragut looked at him with a questioning expression: "_What_

creature?..."

"Who else could it be?... The one from Naples! That blonde devil that

brought us all so much trouble!... We'll see now if this witch is going

to keep us immovable for I don't know how many weeks just as she did

the other time."

He excused himself as though he had just failed in discipline. The boat

was fastened to the wharf by a bridgeway and anybody could come aboard.

The pilot was opposed to these dockings which left the passage free to

the curious and the importunate. By the time he had finished announcing

her arrival, the lady was already on deck near the staterooms. She

remembered well the way to the saloon. She had wished to go straight

in, but it had been Caragol who had stopped her, while Toni went to

advise the captain.

"_Cristo_!" murmured Ulysses. "_Cristo!_..."

And his astonishment, his surprise, did not permit him to utter any

other exclamation.

Then he burst out furiously. "Throw her overboard!... Let two men lay

hold of her and put her back on the wharf, by main force, if

necessary."

But Toni hesitated, not daring to comply with such commands. And the

impetuous Ferragut rushed outside of his cabin to do himself what had

been ordered.

When he reached the saloon some one entered at the same time from the

deck. It was Caragol, who was trying to block the passage of a woman;

but she, laughing and taking advantage of his purblind eyes, was

slipping little by little in between his body and the wooden partition.

On seeing the captain, Freya ran toward him, throwing out her arms.

"You!" she cried in a merry voice. "I knew well enough that you were

here, in spite of the fact that these men were assuring me to the

contrary.... My heart told me so.... How do you do, Ulysses!"

Caragol turned his eyes toward the place where he supposed the mate

must be, as though imploring his pardon. With females he never could

carry out any order.... Toni, on his part, appeared in an agony of

shame before this woman who was looking at him defiantly.

The two disappeared. Ferragut was not able to say exactly how they got

away, but he was glad of it. He feared that the recent arrival might

allude in their presence to the things of the past.

He remained contemplating her a long time. He had believed the day

before that he had recognized her back, and now he was sure that he

might have passed on with indifference had he seen her face. Was this

really the same woman that the two English officials were

accompanying?... She appeared much taller than the other one, with a

slenderness that made her skin appear more clear, giving it a delicate

transparency. The nose was finer and more prominent. The eyes were

sparkling, hidden in bluish black circles.

These eyes began to look at the captain, humbly and pleadingly.

"You!" exclaimed Ulysses in wonder. "You!... What are you coming here

for?"...

Freya replied with the timidity of a bondslave. Yes, it was she who had

recognized him the day before, long before he had seen her, and at once

had formed the plan of coming in search of him. He could beat her just

as at their last meeting: she was ready to suffer everything ... but

with him!

"Save me, Ulysses! Take me with you!... I implore you even more

anxiously than in Barcelona."

"What are you doing here?..."

She understood the captain's amazement on meeting her in a belligerent

country, the disquietude he must naturally feel upon finding a spy on

his vessel. She looked around in order to make sure that they were

entirely alone and spoke in a low voice. The doctor had sent her to

France in order that she should "operate" in its ports. Only to him

could she reveal the secret.

Ulysses was more indignant than ever at this confidence.

"Clear out!" he said in a wrathful voice. "I don't want to know

anything about you.... Your affairs do not interest me at all. I do not

wish to know them.... Get out of here! What are you plaguing me for?"

But she did not appear disposed to comply with his orders. Instead of

departing, she dropped wearily down on one of the divans of the

stateroom.

"I have come," she said, "to beg you to save me. I ask it for the last

time.... I'm going to die; I suspect that my end is very near if you

will not hold out a helping hand; I foresee the vengeance of my own

people.... Guard me, Ulysses! Do not make me go back ashore; I am

afraid.... So safe I shall feel here at your side!..."

Fear, sure enough, was reflected in her eyes as she recalled the last

months of her life in Barcelona.

"The doctor is my enemy.... She who protected me so in other times

abandons me now like an old shoe that it is necessary to get rid of. I

am positive that her superior officers have condemned me...."

She shuddered on remembering the doctor's wrath when on her return from

one of her trips she learned of the death of her faithful Karl. To her,

Captain Ferragut was a species of invulnerable and victorious demon who

was escaping all dangers and murdering the servants of a good cause.

First von Kramer; now Karl.... As it was necessary for her to vent her

wrath on somebody, she had made Freya responsible for all her

misfortunes. Through her she had known the captain, and had mixed him

up in the affairs of the "service."

Thirst for vengeance made the imposing dame smile with a ferocious

expression. The Spanish sailor was doomed by the Highest Command.

Precise orders had been given out against him. "As to his

accomplices!..." Freya was figuring undoubtedly among these accomplices

for having dared to defend Ferragut, for remembering the tragic event

of his son, for having refused to join the chorus desiring his

extermination.

Weeks afterwards the doctor again became as smiling and as amiable as

in other times. "My dear girl, it is agreed that you should take a trip

to France. We need there an agent who will keep us informed of the

traffic of the ports, of the goings and comings of the vessels in order

that our submersibles may know where to await them. The naval officials

are very gallant, and a beautiful woman will be able to gain their

affection."

She had tried to disobey. To go to France!... where her pre-war work

was already known!... To go back to danger when she had already become

accustomed to the safe life of a neutral country!... But her attempts

at resistance were ineffectual. She lacked sufficient will-power; the

"service" had converted her into an automaton.

"And here I am, suspecting that probably I am going to my death, but

fulfilling the commissions given to me, struggling to be accommodating

and retard in this way the fulfillment of their vengeance.... I am like

a condemned criminal who knows that he is going to die, and tries to

make himself so necessary that his sentence will be delayed for a few

months."

"How did you get into France?" he demanded, paying no attention to her

doleful tones.

"Freya shrugged her shoulders. In her business a change of nationality

was easily accomplished. At present she was passing for a citizen of a

South American republic. The doctor had arranged all the papers

necessary to enable her to cross the frontier.

"But here," she continued, "my accomplices have me more securely than

as though I were in prison. They have given me the means of coming here

and they only can arrange my departure. I am absolutely in their power.

I wonder what they are going to do with me!..."

At certain times terror had suggested most desperate expedients to her.

She had thought of denouncing herself, of appearing before the French

authorities, telling them her story and acquainting them with the

secrets which she possessed. But her past filled her with terror, so

many were the evils which she had brought against this country. Perhaps

they might pardon her life, taking into account her voluntary action in

giving herself up. But the prison, the seclusion with shaved head,

dressed in some coarse serge frock, condemned to silence, perhaps

suffering hunger and cold, filled her with invincible repulsion.... No,

death before that!

And so she was continuing her life as a spy, shutting her eyes to the

future, living only in the present, trying to keep from thinking,

considering herself happy if she could see before her even a few days

of security.

The meeting with Ferragut in the street of Marseilles had revived her

drooping spirits, arousing new hope.

"Get me out of here; keep me with you. On your ship I could live as

forgotten by the world as though I were dead.... And if my presence

annoys you, take me far away from France, leave me in some distant

country!"

She was anxious to evade isolation in the enemy's territory, obliged to

obey her superiors like a caged beast who has to take jabs through the

iron grating. Presentiment of her approaching death was making her

tremble.

"I do not want to die, Ulysses!... I am not old enough yet to die. I

adore my physical charm. I am my own best lover and I am terrified at

the thought that I might be shot."

A phosphorescent light gleamed from her eyes and her teeth struck

together with a chattering of terror.

"I do not want to die!" she repeated. "There are moments in which I

suspect that they are following me and closing me in.... Perhaps they

have recognized me and at this moment are waiting to surprise me in the

very act.... Do help me; get me away from here; my death is certain. I

have done so much harm!..."

She was silent a moment, as though calculating all the crimes of her

former life.

"The doctor," she continued, "depends upon her consuming patriotic

enthusiasm as the impetus to her work. I lack her faith. I am not a

German woman, and being a spy is very repugnant to me.... I feel

ashamed when I think of my actual life; every night I think over the

result of my abominable work; I calculate the use to which they will

put my warnings and my information; I can see the torpedoed boats.... I

wonder how many human beings have perished through my fault!... I have

visions; my conscience torments me. Save me!... I can do no more. I

feel a horrible fear. I have so much to expiate!..."

Little by little she had raised herself from the divan, and, while

begging Ferragut's protection, was going toward him with outstretched

arms; abject, and yet at the same time caressing, through that desire

of seduction that always predominated over all her acts.

"Leave me!" shouted the sailor. "Do not come near me.... Do not touch

me!"

He felt that same wrath that had made him so brutal in their interview

in Barcelona. He was greatly exasperated at the tenacity of this

adventuress who, in addition to the tragic influence she had already

exercised upon his life, was now trying to compromise him still

further.

But a sentiment of cold compassion made him check his anger and speak

with a certain kindness.

If she needed money in order to make her escape, he would give it to

her without any haggling whatever. She could name the sum. The captain

was disposed to satisfy all her desires except that of living with her.

He would give her a substantial amount in order to make her fortune

assured and never see her again.

Freya made a gesture of protest at the same time that the sailor began

repenting of his generosity.... Why should he do such a favor to a

woman who reminded him of the death of his son?... What was there in

common between the two?... Their vile love-affair in Naples had been

sufficiently paid for with his bereavement.... Let each one follow his

own destiny; they belonged to different worlds.... Was he going to have

to defend himself all his life long from this insistent charmer?...

Moreover, he was not at all sure that even now she was telling the

truth.... Everything about her was false. He did not even know with

certainty her true name and her past existence....

"Clear out!" he roared in a threatening tone. "Leave me in peace."

He raised his powerful hand against her, seeing that she was going to

refuse to obey. He was going to pick her up roughly, carry her like a

light bundle outside the room, outside the boat, flinging her away as

though she were remorse.

But her physique, so opulent in its seductions, now inspired him with

an unconquerable repugnance; he was afraid of its contact and wished to

avoid its electric surprises.... Besides, he wasn't going to maltreat

her at every meeting like a professional Apache who mixes love and

blows. He recalled with disgust his violence in Barcelona.

And as Freya instead of going away sank back on the divan, with a

faintness that seemed to challenge his wrath, it was he who fled in

order to bring the interview to an end.

He rushed into his stateroom, locking the door with a bang. This flight

brought her out of her inertia. She wished to follow him with the leap

of a young panther, but her hands collided with an obstacle that became

impassable, while from within sounded the noise of keys and bolts.

She pounded the door desperately, injuring her fists with her fruitless

efforts.

"Ulysses, open it!... Listen to me."

In vain she shrieked as though she were giving an order, exasperated at

finding that she was not obeyed. Her fury spent itself unavailingly

against the solid immovability of the wood. Suddenly she began to cry,

modifying her purpose upon finding herself as weak and defenseless as

an abandoned creature. All her life appeared concentrated in her tears

and in her pleading voice.

She passed her fingers over the door, groping over the moldings,

slipping them over the varnished surface as though seeking at random a

crevice, a hole, something that would permit her to get to the man that

was on the other side.

Instinctively she fell upon her knees, putting her mouth to the

keyhole.

"My lord, my master!" she murmured in the voice of a beggar. "Open the

door.... Do not abandon me. Remember that I am going to my death if you

do not save me."

Ferragut heard her, and, in order to evade her moaning, was getting as

near as possible to the end of his stateroom. Then he unfastened the

round window that opened on the deck, ordering a seaman to go after the

mate.

"_Don Antoni! Don Antoni!_" various voices cried the whole length of

the ship.

Toni appeared, putting his face in the circular opening only to receive

the furious vituperation of his captain.

Why had they left him alone with that woman?... They must take her off

the boat at once, even if it had to be done by main force.... He

commanded it.

The mate went off with a confounded air, scratching his beard as though

he had received an order very difficult to execute.

"Save me, my love!" the imploring whisper kept moaning. "Forget who I

am.... Think only of the one of Naples.... Of the one whom you knew at

Pompeii.... Remember our happiness alone together in the days when you

swore never to abandon me.... You are a gentleman!..."

Her voice ceased for a moment. Ferragut heard footsteps on the other

side of the door. Toni was carrying out his orders.

But in a few seconds the pleading again burst forth, reconcentrated,

tenacious, bent only upon carrying its point, scorning the new

obstacles about to interpose between her and the captain.

"Do you hate me so?... Remember the bliss that I gave you. You yourself

swore to me that you had never been so happy. I can revive that past.

You do not know of what things I am capable in order to make your

existence sweet.... And you wish to lose and to ruin me!..."

A clash against the door was heard, a struggle of bodies that were

pushing each other, the friction of a scuffle against the wood.

Toni had entered followed by Caragol.

"Enough of that now, Señora," said the mate in a grim voice in order to

hide his emotion. "Can't you see that the captain doesn't want to see

you?... Don't you understand that you are disturbing him?... Come,

now.... Get up!"

He tried to help her to stand up, separating her mouth from the

keyhole. But Freya repelled the vigorous sailor with facility. He

appeared to be lacking in force, without the courage to repeat his

rough action. The beauty of this woman made him afraid. He was still

thrilled by the contact of her firm body which he had just torched

during their short struggle. His drowsing virtue had suffered the

torments of a fruitless resurrection. "Ah, no!... Let somebody else

take charge of putting her off."

"Ulysses, they're taking me away!" she cried, again putting her mouth

to the keyhole. "And you, my love, will you permit it?... You who used

to love me so?..."

After this desperate call, she remained silent for a few instants. The

door maintained its immobility; behind it there seemed to be no living

being.

"Farewell!" she continued in a low voice, her throat choked with sobs,

"you will see me no more.... I am soon going to die; my heart tells me

so.... To die because of you!... Perhaps some day you will weep on

recalling that you might have saved me."

Some one had intervened to force Freya from her rebellious standstill.

It was Caragol, solicited by the mate's imploring eyes.

His great hairy hands helped her to arise, without making her repeat

the protest that had repelled Toni. Conquered and bursting into tears,

she appeared to yield to the paternal aid and counsel of the cook.

"Up now, my good lady!" said Caragol. "A little more courage and don't

cry any more.... There is some consolation for everything in this

world."

In his bulky right hand he imprisoned her two, and, passing his other

arm around her waist, he was guiding her little by little toward the

exit from the salon.

"Trust in God," he added. "Why do you seek the captain who has his own

wife ashore?... Other men who are free are still in existence, and you

could make some arrangement with them without falling into mortal sin."

Freya was not listening to him. Near the door she again turned her

head, beginning her return toward the captain's stateroom.

"Ulysses!... Ulysses!" she cried.

"Trust in God, Señora," said Caragol again, while he was pushing her

along with his flabby abdomen and shaggy breast.

A charitable idea was taking possession of his thoughts. He had the

remedy for the grief of this handsome woman whose desperation but made

her more interesting.

"Come along, Señora.... Leave it to me, my child."

Upon reaching the deck he continued driving her towards his dominions.

Freya found herself seated in the galley, without knowing just exactly

where she was. Through her tears she saw this obese old man of

sacerdotal benevolence, going from side to side gathering bottles

together and mixing liquids, stirring the spoon around in a glass with

a joyous tinkling.

"Drink without fear.... There is no trouble that resists this

medicine."

The cook offered her a glass and she, vanquished, drank and drank,

making a wry face because of the alcoholic intensity of the liquid. She

continued weeping at the same time that her mouth was relishing the

heavy sweetness. Her tears were mingled with the beverage that was

slipping between her lips.

A comfortable warmth began making itself felt in her stomach, drying up

the moisture in her eyes and giving new color to her cheeks. Caragol

was keeping up his chat, satisfied with the outcome of his handiwork,

making signs to the glowering Toni,--who was passing and repassing

before the door, with the vehement desire of seeing the intruder march

away, and disappear forever.

"Don't cry any more, my daughter.... _Cristo del Grao!_ The very idea!

A lady as pretty as you, who can find sweethearts by the dozen,

crying!... Believe me; find somebody else. This world is just full of

men with nothing to do.... And always for every disappointment that you

suffer, have recourse to my cordial.... I am going to give you the

recipe."

He was about to note down on a bit of paper the proportions of brandy

and sugar, when she arose, suddenly invigorated, looking around her in

wonder.... But where was she? What had she to do with this good, kind,

half-dressed man, who was talking to her as though he were her

father?...

"Thanks! Many thanks!" she said on leaving the kitchen.

Then on deck she stopped, opening her gold-mesh bag, in order to take

out the little glass and powder box. In the beveled edge of the oval

glass she saw the faun-like countenance of Toni hovering behind her

with glances of impatience.

"Tell Captain Ferragut that I shall never trouble him again.... All has

ended.... Perhaps he may hear me spoken of some time, but he will never

see me again."

And she left the boat without turning her head, with quickened step as

though, fired by a sudden suggestion, she were hastening to put it into

effect.

Toni ran also, but toward Ulysses' stateroom window.

"Has she gone yet?" asked the captain impatiently.

The mate nodded his head. She had promised not to return.

"Be it so!" said Ferragut.

Toni experienced the same desire. Would to God they might never again

see this blonde who always brought them misfortune!...

In the days following, the captain rarely left his ship. He did not

wish to run the risk of meeting her in the city streets for he was a

little doubtful of the hardness of his character. He feared that upon

seeing her again, weeping and pleading, he might yield to her

beseeching.

Ulysses' uneasiness vanished as soon as the loading of the vessel was

finished. This trip was going to be shorter than the others. The _Mare

Nostrum_ went to Corfu with war material for the Serbs who were

reorganizing their battalions destined for Salonica.

On the return trip Ferragut was attacked by the enemy. One day at dawn

just as he mounted the bridge to relieve Toni, the two spied at the

same time the tangible form that they were always seeing in

imagination. Within the circle of their glasses there framed itself the

end of a stick, black and upright, that was cutting the waters rosy in

the sunrise, leaving a wake of foam.

"Submarine!" shouted the captain.

Toni said nothing, but shoving aside the helmsman with a stroke of his

paw, he grasped the wheel, making the boat swerve in another direction.

The movement was opportune. Only a few seconds had passed by when there

began to be seen upon the water a black back of dizzying speed headed

directly for the steamer.

"Torpedo!" shouted the captain.

The anxious waiting lasted but a few seconds. The projectile, hidden in

the water, passed some six yards from the stern, losing itself in

space. Had it not been for Toni's rapid tacking, the boat would have

been hit squarely in the side.

Through the speaking tube connecting with the engine-room the captain

shouted energetic orders to put on full speed. Meanwhile the mate,

clamped to the wheel, ready to die rather than leave it, was directing

the boat in zigzags so as not to offer a fixed point to the submarine.

All the crew were watching from the rail the distant and insignificant

upright periscope. The third officer had rushed out of his stateroom,

almost naked, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Caragol was in the stern, his

loose shirt-tail flapping away as he held one hand to his eyebrows like

a visor.

"I see it!... I see it perfectly.... Ah, the bandit, the heretic!"

And he extended his threatening fist toward a point in the horizon

exactly opposite to the one upon which the periscope was appearing.

Through the blue circle of the glasses Ferragut saw this tube climbing

up and up, growing larger and larger. It was no longer a stick, it was

a tower; and from beneath this tower was coming up on the sea a base of

steel spouting cascades of smoke,--a gray whale-back that appeared

little by little to be taking the form of a sailing vessel, long and

sharp-pointed.

A flag was suddenly run up upon the submarine. Ulysses recognized it.

"They are going to shell us!" he yelled to Toni. "It's useless to keep

up the zigzagging. The thing to do now is to outspeed them, to go

forward in a straight line."

The mate, skillful helmsman that he was, obeyed the captain. The hull

vibrated under the force of the engines taxed to their utmost. Their

prow was cutting the waters with increasing noise. The submersible upon

augmenting its volume by emersion appeared, nevertheless, to be falling

behind on the horizon. Two streaks of foam began to spring up on both

sides of its prow. It was running with all its possible surface speed;

but the _Mare Nostrum_ was also going at the utmost limit of its

engines and the distance was widening between the two boats.

"They are shooting!" said Ferragut with the glasses to his eyes.

A column of water spouted near the prow. That was the only thing that

Caragol was able to see clearly and he burst into applause with a

childish joy. Then he waved on high his palm-leaf hat. "_Viva el Santo

Cristo del Grao!_..."

Other projectiles were falling around the _Mare Nostrum_, spattering it

with jets of foam. Suddenly it trembled from poop to prow. Its plates

trembled with the vibration of an explosion.

"That's nothing!" yelled the captain, bending himself double over the

bridge in order to see better the hull of his ship. "A shell in the

stern. Steady, Toni!..."

The mate, always grasping the wheel, kept turning his head from time to

time to measure the distance separating them from the submarine. Every

time that he saw an aquatic column of spray, forced up by a projectile,

he would repeat the same counsel.

"Lie down, Ulysses!... They are going to fire at the bridge!"

This was a recollection of his far-away youth when, as a contrabandist,

he used to stretch himself flat on the deck of his bark, manipulating

the wheel and the sail under the fire of the custom-house officers on

watch. He feared for the life of his captain while he was standing,

constantly offering himself to the shots of the enemy.

Ferragut was storming from side to side, cursing his lack of means for

returning the aggression. "This will never happen another time!... They

won't get another chance to amuse themselves chasing me!"

A second projectile opened another breach in the poop. "If it only

won't hit the engines!" the captain was thinking. After that the _Mare

Nostrum_ received no more damage, the following shots merely raising up

columns of water in the steamer's wake. Every time now, these white

phantasms leaped up further and further away. Although out of the range

of the enemy's gun, it continued shooting and shooting uselessly.

Finally the firing ceased and the submarine disappeared from the view

of the glasses and completely submerged, tired of vain pursuit.

"That'll never happen again!" the captain kept repeating. "They'll

never attack me another time with impunity!"

Then it occurred to him that this submarine had attack him knowing just

who he was. On the side of his vessel were painted the colors of Spain.

At the first shot from the gun, the third officer had hoisted the flag,

but the shots did not cease on that account. They had wished to sink it

"without leaving any trace." He believed that Freya, in her relations

with the directors of the submarine campaign, must have advised them of

his trip.

"Ah,... _tal!_ If I meet her another time!..."

He had to remain several weeks in Marseilles while the damage to his

steamer was being repaired.

As Toni lacked occupation during this enforced idleness, he accompanied

him many times on his strolls. They liked to seat themselves on the

terrace of a café in order to comment upon the picturesque differences

in the cosmopolitan crowd.

"Look; people from our own country!" said the captain one evening.

And he pointed to three seamen drawn into the current of different

uniforms and types of various races flowing familiarly around the

tables of the café.

He had recognized them by their silk caps with visors, their blue

jackets and their heavy obesity of Mediterranean sailors enjoying a

certain prosperity. They must be skippers of small boats.

As though Ferragut's looks and gestures had mysteriously notified them,

the three turned, fixing their eyes on the captain. Then they began to

discuss among themselves with a vehemence which made it easy to guess

their words.

"It is he!..." "No, it isn't!..."

Those men knew him but couldn't believe that they were really seeing

him.

They went a little way off with marked indecision, turning repeatedly

to look at him once more. In a few moments one of them, the oldest,

returned, approaching the table timidly.

"Excuse me, but aren't you Captain Ferragut?..." He asked this question

in Valencian, with his right hand at his cap, ready to take it off.

Ulysses stopped his salutation and offered him a seat. Yes, he was

Ferragut. What did he want?...

The man refused to sit down. He wished to tell him privately two

special things. When the captain presented to him his mate as a man in

whom they could have complete confidence, he then sat down. The two

companions, breaking through the human current, were standing on the

edge of the sidewalk, turning their backs to the café.

He was skipper of a small craft; Ferragut had not been mistaken. He was

speaking slowly, as though taken up with his final revelation to which

all that he was saying was merely an introduction.

"The times are not so bad.... Money is to be gained in the sea; more

than ever. I am from Valencia.... We have brought three boats from

there with wine and rice. A good trip, but it was necessary to navigate

close to the coast, following the curve of the gulf, without venturing

to pass from cape to cape for fear of the submarine.... I have met a

submarine."

Ulysses suspected that these last words contained the real motive which

had made the man, overcoming his timidity, venture to address him.

"It was not on this trip nor on the one before," continued the man of

the sea. "I met it two days before last Christmas. In the winter I

devote myself to fishing. I am the owner of a pair of fishing

smacks.... We were near the island Columbretas when suddenly we saw a

submarine appear near us. The Germans did not do us any harm; the only

vexatious thing was that we had to give them a part of our fish for

what they wished to give us. Then they ordered me to come aboard the

deck of a submarine in order to meet the commander. He was a young

fellow who could talk Castilian as I have heard it spoken over there in

the Americas when I was a youngster sailing on a brigantine."

The man stopped, rather reserved, as though doubtful whether to

continue his story.

"And what did the German say?" asked Ferragut, in order to encourage

him to continue.

"Upon learning that I was a Valencian, he asked me if I was acquainted

with you. He asked me about your steamer, wanting to know if it

generally sailed along the Spanish coast. I replied that I knew you by

name, no more, and then he ..."

The captain encouraged him with a smile on seeing that he was beginning

to hesitate again.

"He spoke badly about me. Isn't that so?..."

"Yes, sir; very badly. He used ugly words. He said that he had an

account to adjust with you and that he wished to be the first one to

meet you. According to what he gave me to understand, the other

submarines are hunting for you, too.... It is an order without doubt."

Ferragut and his mate exchanged a long look. Meanwhile the captain

continued his explanations.

The two friends who were waiting a few steps off had seen the captain

in Valencia and Barcelona many times. One of them had recognized him

immediately; but the other was doubtful whether it might be he, and, as

a matter of conscience, the old skipper had come back to give him this

warning.

"We countrymen must help one another.... These are bad times!"

Seeing him standing, his two comrades now came up to Ferragut. "What

would you like to drink?" He invited them to seat themselves at the

table, but they were in a hurry. They were on their way to see the

consignees of their boats.

"Now you know it, Captain," said the skipper on bidding him farewell.

"These demons are after you in order to pay you up for something in the

past. You know what for.... Be very careful!"

The rest of the evening Ferragut and Toni talked very little together.

The two had exactly the same thought in their brain, but avoided

putting it in shape because, as energetic men, they feared that some

cowardly construction might be put upon such thoughts.

At nightfall when they returned to the steamer the pilot ventured to

break the silence.

"Why do you not quit the sea?... You are rich. Besides, they'll give

you whatever you ask for your ship. To-day boats are worth their weight

in gold."

Ulysses shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't thinking of money. What good

would that do him?... He wanted to pass the rest of his life on the

sea, giving aid to the enemies of his enemies. He had a vengeance to

fulfill.... Living on land, he would be abandoning this vengeance,

though remembering his son with even greater intensity.

The mate was silent for a few moments.

"The enemies are so many," he then said in dismay. "We are so

insignificant!... We only escaped by a few yards being sent to the

bottom on our last trip. What has not happened yet will surely happen

some day.... _They_ have sworn to do away with you; and they are many

... and they are at war. What could we do, we poor peaceable

sailors?..."

Toni did not add anything further but his silent thoughts were divined

by Ulysses.

He was thinking about his family over there in the _Marina_, enduring

an existence of continual anxiety while he was aboard a vessel for

which irresistible menace was lying in wait. He was thinking also of

the wives and mothers of all the men of the crew who were suffering the

same anguish. And Toni was asking himself for the first time whether

Captain Ferragut had the right to drag them all to a sure death just

because of his vengeful and crazy stubbornness.

"No; I have not the right," Ulysses told himself mentally.

But at the same time his mate, repentant of his former reflection, was

affirming in a loud voice with heroic simplicity:

"If I counsel you to retire, it is for your own good; don't think it is

because I am afraid.... I will follow you wherever you sail. I've got

to die some time and it would be far better that it should be in the

sea. The only thing that troubles me is worrying about my wife and

children."

The captain continued walking in silence and, upon reaching his ship,

spoke with brevity. "I was thinking of doing something that perhaps you

would all like. Before next week your future will have been decided."

He passed the following day on land. Twice he returned with some

gentlemen who examined the steamer minutely, going down into the engine

room and the holds. Some of these visitors appeared to be experts in

matters pertaining to the sea.

"He wants to sell the boat," said Toni to himself.

And the mate began to repent of his counsels. Abandon the _Mare

Nostrum_, the best of all the ships on which he had ever sailed!... He

accused himself of cowardice, believing that it was he who had impelled

the captain to reach this decision. What were the two going to do on

land when the steamer was the property of others?... Would he not have

to sail on an inferior boat, running the same risks?... He decided to

undo his work, and was about to counsel Ferragut again, declaring that

his ideas were mere conjecture and that he must continue living as he

was at present, when the captain gave the order for departure. The

repairs were not yet entirely completed.

"We are going to Brest," said Ferragut laconically, "It's the last

trip."

And the steamer put to sea without cargo as though going to fulfill a

special mission.

"The last trip!" Toni admired his ship as though seeing it under a new

light, discovering beauties hitherto unsuspected, lamenting like a

lover the days that were running by so swiftly and the sad moment of

separation that was approaching.

Never had the mate been so active in his vigilance. His seaman's

superstition filled him with a certain terror. Just because it was the

last voyage something horrible might occur to them. He paced the bridge

for entire days, examining the sea, fearing the apparition of a

periscope, varying the course in agreement with the captain, who was

seeking less-frequented waters where the submarines could not expect to

find any prey.

He breathed more freely upon entering one of the three semi-circular

sea-ledges which enclose the roadstead of Brest. When they were

anchored in this bit of sea, foggy and insecure, surrounded with black

mountains, Toni awaited with anxiety the result of the captain's

excursions ashore.

During the entire course of the trip Ferragut had not been inclined to

be confidential. The mate only knew that this voyage to Brest was the

last. Who was going to be the new owner of the _Mare Nostrum_?...

One rainy evening, upon returning to the boat, Ulysses gave orders that

they should hunt up the mate while he was shaking out his waterproof in

the entry to the stateroom.

The roadstead was dark with its foamy waves, choppy and thick, leaping

like sheep. The men-of-war were sending out smoke from their triple

chimneys ready to confront the bad weather with their steam engines.

The ship, anchored in the commercial port, was dancing restlessly,

tugging at its hawsers, with a mournful croaking. All the nearby boats

were tossing in the same way, just as though they were out on the high

seas.

Toni entered the saloon, and one look at the captain's face made him

suspect that the moment for knowing the truth had arrived. Avoiding his

glance, Ulysses told him curtly, trying to evade by the conciseness of

his language all signs of emotion.

He had sold the ship to the French:--a rapid and magnificent piece of

business.... Whoever would have said when he bought the _Mare Nostrum_

that some day they would give him such an enormous sum for it?... In no

country could they find any vessels for sale. The invalids of the sea,

rusting in the harbors as old iron, were now bringing fabulous prices.

Boats, aground and forgotten on remote coasts, were placed afloat for

enterprises that were gaining millions by this resurrection. Others,

submerged in tropical seas, had been brought up to the surface after a

ten years' stay under the water, renewing their voyages. Every month a

new shipyard sprang into existence, but the world war could never find

enough vessels for the transportation of food and instruments of death.

Without any bargaining whatever, they had given Ferragut the price that

he had exacted; fifteen hundred francs per ton,--four million and a

half for the boat. And to this must be added the nearly two millions

that it had gained in its voyages since the beginning of the war.

"I am rotten with money," concluded the captain.

And he said it sadly, remembering with a homesick longing the days of

peace when he was wrestling with the problems of a badly paying

business. But then his son was living. Of what avail was all this

wealth that was assaulting him on all sides as though it were going to

crush him with its weight?... His wife would be able to lavish money

with full hands on works of charity; she would be able to give her

nieces the dowry suitable for daughters of high-born personages....

Nothing more! Neither he nor she could for one moment resuscitate their

past. These useless riches could only bring him a certain tranquillity

in thinking of the future of his wife, who was his entire family. She

was at liberty henceforth to dispose freely of her existence. Cinta, on

his death, would fall heir to millions.

In order to evade the emotions of farewell, he spoke to Toni very

authoritatively. A chart of the Atlantic was lying on the table and

with his index finger he marked out the mate's course; this course was

not across the sea, but far from it, following an inland route.

"To-morrow," he said, "the French are coming to take possession. You

may leave whenever you please, but it will be convenient to have you go

as soon as possible...."

He explained his return trip to Toni, just as though he were giving him

a lesson in geography. This sea-rover became timid and downhearted when

they talked to him about railroad time-tables and changing trains.

"Here is Brest.... Follow this line to Bordeaux; from Bordeaux to the

frontier. And once there, turn to Barcelona or go to Madrid, and from

Madrid to Valencia."

The mate contemplated the map silently, scratching his beard. Then he

raised his canine eyes slowly until he fixed them upon Ulysses.

"And you?" he asked.

"I remain here. The captain of the _Mare Nostrum_, has sold himself

with his vessel."

Toni made a distressed gesture. For a moment he almost believed that

Ferragut wanted to get rid of him and was discontented with his

services. But the captain hastened to explain further.

Because the _Mare Nostrum_ belonged to a neutral country, it could not

be sold to one of the belligerent nations while hostilities lasted.

Because of this, he had transferred it in a way that would not make it

necessary to change the flag. Although no longer its owner, he would

stay on board as its captain, and the ship would continue to be Spanish

the same as before.

"And why must I go away?" asked Toni in a tremulous tone, believing

himself overlooked.

"We are going to sail armed," replied Ulysses energetically. "I have

made the sale on that account more than for the money. We are going to

carry a quickfirer at the stern, wireless installation, a crew of men

from the naval reserves,--everything necessary to defend ourselves. We

shall make our voyages without hunting for the enemy, carrying freight

as before; but if the enemy comes out to attack us, it will find some

one who will answer."

He was ready to die, if that was to be his fate, but attacking whoever

attacked him.

"And may I not go, too?" persisted the pilot.

"No; back of you there is a family that needs you. You do not belong to

a nation at war, nor have you anything to avenge.... I am the only one

of the former crew that remains on board. All the rest of you are to

go. The captain has a reason for exposing his life, and he does not

wish to assume the responsibility of dragging all of you into his last

adventure."

Toni understood that it would be useless to insist. His eyes became

moist.... Was it possible that within a few hours they would be bidding

each other a last good-by?... Should he never again see Ulysses and the

ship on which he had spent the greater part of his past?...

In order to maintain his serenity, the captain tried to bring this

interview promptly to an end.

"The first thing to-morrow morning," he said, "you will call the crew

together. Adjust all the accounts. Each one must receive as an extra

bonus a year's pay. I wish them to have pleasant memories of Captain

Ferragut."

The mate attempted to oppose this generosity by a remnant of the keen

interest that the business affairs of the boat had always inspired in

him. But his superior officer would not let him continue.

"I am rotten with money, I tell you," he repeated as though uttering a

complaint. "I have more than I need.... I can do foolish things with it

if I wish to."

Then for the first time he looked his mate square in the face.

"As for you," he continued, "I have thought what you must do.... Here,

take this!"

He gave him a sealed envelope and the pilot mechanically tried to open

it.

"No, don't open it at present. You will find out what it contains when

you are in Spain. Within it is enclosed the future of your own folks."

Toni looked with astonished eyes at the light scrap of paper which he

held between his fingers.

"I know you," continued Ferragut. "You are going to protest at the

quantity. What to me is insignificant, to you will appear excessive....

Do not open the envelope until you are in our country. In it you will

find the name of the bank to which you must go. I wish you to be the

richest man in your village that your sons may remember Captain

Ferragut when he is dead."

The mate made a gesture of protest before this possible death, and at

the same time rubbed his eyes as though he felt in them an intolerable

itching.

Ulysses continued his instructions. He had rashly sold the home of his

ancestors there in the _Marina_, the vineyards,--all his legacy from

the _Triton_, when he had acquired the _Mare Nostrum_. It was his wish

that Toni should redeem the property, installing himself in the ancient

domicile of the Ferraguts.

He had money to spare for that and much more.

"I have no children and I like to feel that yours are occupying the

house that was mine.... Perhaps when I get to be an old man--if they do

not kill me, I will come to spend the summers with you. Courage now,

Toni!... We shall yet go fishing together, as I used to go fishing with

my uncle, the doctor."

But the mate did not regain his spirits on hearing these optimistic

affirmations. His eyes were swollen with tears that sparkled in the

corners of his eyes. He was swearing between his teeth, protesting

against the coming separation.... Never to see him again, after so many

years of brotherly companionship!... _Cristo!_...

The captain was afraid that he, too, might burst into tears and again

ordered his mate to present the accounts of the crew.

An hour later Toni reëntered the saloon, carrying in his hand the

opened letter. He had not been able to resist the temptation of forcing

the secret, fearing that Ferragut's generosity might prove excessive,

and impossible to consider. He protested, handing to Ulysses the check

taken from the envelope.

"I could not accept it!... It's a crazy idea!..."

He had read with terror the amount made out to him in the letter of

credit, first in figures then in long hand. Two hundred and fifty

thousand pesetas!... fifty thousand dollars!

"That is not for me," he said again. "I do not deserve it.... What

could I ever do with so much money?"

The captain pretended to be irritated by his disobedience.

"You take that paper, you brute!... I was just afraid that you were

going to protest.... It's for your children, and so that you can take a

rest. Now we won't talk any more about it or I shall get angry."

Then, in order to conquer Toni's scruples, he abandoned his violent

tone, and said sadly:

"I have no heirs.... I don't know what to do with my useless fortune."

And he repeated once more like a complaint against destiny: "I am

rotten with money!..."

The following morning, while Toni was in his cabin adjusting the

accounts of the crew, astonished by the munificence of their

paying-off, Uncle Caragol came into the saloon, asking to speak to

Ferragut.

He had placed an old cape over his flapping and scanty clothing, more

as a decoration for the visit than because the cold of Brittany was

really making him suffer.

He removed from his shaved head his everlasting palm-leaf hat, fixing

his bloodshot eyes on the captain who continued writing after replying

to his greeting.

"What does this mean, this order that I've just received to prepare to

leave the boat within a few hours?... It must be some kind of a joke of

Toni's; he's an excellent fellow but an enemy to holy things and likes

to tease me because of my piety...."

Ferragut laid aside his pen, swinging around toward the cook whose fate

had troubled him as much as the first mate's.

"Uncle Caragol, we are growing old and we must think about retiring....

I am going to give you a paper; you will guard it just as though it

were a sacred picture, and when you present it in Valencia they will

give you ten thousand dollars. Do you know how much ten thousand

dollars are?..."

Bringing his mentality down to the level of this simple-minded man, he

enjoyed tracing out for him a plan of living. He could invest his

capital in whatever modest enterprise in the port of Valencia might

appeal to his fancy; he could establish a restaurant which would soon

become famous for its Olympian rice dishes. His nephews who were

fishermen would receive him like a god. He could also be partner in a

couple of barks, dedicated to fishing for the _bou_. There was awaiting

him a happy and honorable old age; his former sailing companions were

going to look upon him with envy. He could get up late in the morning;

he could go to the cafés; as a rich devotee he could figure in all the

religious processions of the Grau and of the Cabanal; he could have a

place of honor in the holy processions....

Heretofore, when Ferragut was talking, Uncle Caragol had always

mechanically interrupted him, saying: "That is so, my captain." For the

first time he was not nodding his head nor smiling with his sun-like

face. He was pale and gloomy. He shook his round head energetically and

said laconically:

"No, my captain."

Before the glance of astonishment which Ulysses flashed upon him, he

found it necessary to explain himself.

"What am I ever going to do ashore?... Who is expecting me there?... Or

what business with my family would have any interest for me?..."

Ferragut seemed to be hearing an echo of his own thoughts. He, like the

cook, would have nothing to do on land.... He was mortally bored when

far from the sea, just as in those months when, still young, he had

believed that he could create for himself a new profession in

Barcelona. Besides, it was impossible to return to his home, taking up

life again with his wife; it would be simply losing his last illusions.

It would be better to view from afar all that remained of his former

existence.

Caragol, meanwhile, was going on talking. His nephews would not

remember the poor old cook and he had no reason to trouble himself

about their fate, making them rich. He would prefer to remain just

where he was, without money but happy.

"Let the others go!" he said with childish selfishness. "Let Toni

go!... I'm going to stay.... I've got to stay. When the captain goes,

then Uncle Caragol will go."

Ulysses enumerated the great dangers that the boat was about to face.

The German submarines were lying in wait for it with deadly

determination; there would be combats ... they would be torpedoed....

The old man's smile showed contempt of all such dangers. He was certain

that nothing bad could possibly happen to the _Mare Nostrum_. The

furies of the sea were unavailing against it and still less could the

wickedness of man injure it.

"I know what I'm talking about, Captain.... I am sure that we shall

come out safe and sound from all dangers."

He thought of his miracle-working amulets, of his sacred pictures, of

the supernatural protection that his pious prayers were bringing him.

Furthermore, he was taking into consideration the Latin name of the

ship which had always inspired him with religious respect. It belonged

to the language used by the Church, to the idiom which brought about

miracles and expelled the devil, making him run away aghast.

"The _Mare Nostrum_ will not suffer any misfortune. If it should change

its title ... perhaps. But while it is called _Mare Nostrum_,--how

_could_ anything happen to it?..."

Smiling before this faith, Ferragut brought forth his last argument.

The entire crew was going to be made up of Frenchmen; how could they

ever understand each other if he were ignorant of their language?...

"I know it all," affirmed the old man superbly.

He had made himself understood with men in all the different ports of

the world. He was counting on something more than mere language,--on

his eyes, his hands, the expressive cunning of an exuberant and

gesticulating meridional.

"I am just like _San Vicente Ferrer_," he added with pride.

His saint had spoken only the Valencian dialect, and yet had traveled

throughout half Europe preaching to throngs of different tongues,

making them weep with mystic emotion and repent of their sins.

While Ferragut retained the command, he was going to stay. If he didn't

want him for a cook, he would be the cabin boy, washing up the pots and

pans. The important thing for him was to continue treading the deck of

the vessel.

The captain had to give in. This old fellow represented a remnant of

his past. He could betake himself from time to time to the galley to

talk over the far-away days in which they first met.

And Caragol retired, content with his success.

"As for those Frenchmen," he said before departing, "just leave them to

me. They must be good people.... We'll just see what they say about my

rice dishes."

In the course of the week the _Mare Nostrum_ was de-organized and

re-manned. Its former crew went marching away in groups. Toni was the

last to leave, and Ulysses did not wish to see him, fearing to show his

emotion. They'd surely write to each other.

A sympathetic curiosity impelled the cook toward the new marine force.

He saluted the officers affably, regretting not to know their language

sufficiently to begin a friendly conversation with them. The captain

had accustomed him to such familiarity.

There were two mates that the mobilization had converted into auxiliary

lieutenants of the navy. The first day they presented themselves on

board arrayed in their uniform; then they returned in civilian clothes

in order to habituate themselves to being simply merchant officers on a

neutral steamer. The two knew by hearsay, of Ferragut's former voyages

and his services to the Allies, and they understood each other

sympathetically without the slightest national prejudice. Caragol

achieved equal success with the forty-five men who had taken possession

of the machinery and the messrooms in the forecastle. They were dressed

like seamen of the fleet, with a broad blue collar and a cap topped by

a red pompom. Some displayed on the breast military medals and the

recent _Croix de Guerre_. From their canvas bags which served them for

valises, they unpacked their regulation suits, worn when they were

working on the freight steamers, on the schooners plying to

Newfoundland, or on the simple coasting smacks.

The galley at certain hours was full of men listening to the old cook.

Some knew the Spanish tongue on account of having sailed in brigs from

Saint-Malo and Saint-Nazaire, going to the ports of the Argentine,

Chili and Peru. Those who could not understand the old fellow's words,

could guess at them from his gesticulations. They were all laughing,

finding him bizarre and interesting. And this general gayety induced

Caragol to bring forth liquid treasures that had been piling up in

former voyages under Ferragut's careless and generous administration.

The strong alcoholic wine of the coast of the Levant began falling into

the glasses like ink crowned with a circle of rubies. The old man

poured it forth with a prodigal hand. "Drink away, boys; in your land

you don't have anything like this...." At other times he would concoct

his famous "refrescoes," smiling with the satisfaction of an artist at

seeing the sensuous grin that began flashing across their countenances.

"When did you ever drink anything like that? What would ever become of

you all without your Uncle Caragol?..."

These Bretons, accustomed to the discipline and sobriety of other

vessels, admired greatly the extraordinary privileges of a cook who

could display as much generosity as the captain himself. He frequently

communicated to Ferragut his opinion regarding his new comrades. With

good reason he had said that they would understand each other!... They

were serious and religious men, and he preferred them to the former

Mediterranean crews, blasphemers and incapable of resignation, who at

the slightest vexation would rip out God's name, trying to affront him

with their curses.

They were all muscular and well set-up with blue eyes and blonde

mustaches, and were wearing hidden medallions. One of them had

presented to the cook one of his religious charms which he had bought

on a pilgrimage to _Ste. Anne d'Auray_. Caragol was wearing it upon his

hairy chest, and experiencing a new-born faith in the miracles of this

foreign image.

"To her sanctuary, Captain, the pilgrims go in thousands. Every day she

performs a miracle.... There's a holy staircase there which the devout

climb on their knees and many of these lads have mounted it. I should

like ..."

On some of their voyages to Brest he was hoping that Ferragut would

permit him to go to Auray long enough to climb that same stairway on

his knees, to see _Ste. Anne_ and return aboard ship.

The vessel was no longer in a commercial harbor. It had gone to a

military harbor,--a narrow river winding through the interior of the

city, dividing it in two. A great drawbridge put in communication the

two shores bordered with vast constructions and high chimneys, naval

shops, warehouses, arsenals, and dry-docks for cleaning up the boats.

Tug-boats were continually stirring up its green and miry waters.

Steamers undergoing repairs were lined up the length of the

break-waters undergoing a continual pounding that made their plates

resound. Lighters topped with hills of pit coal were going slowly to

take their position along the flanks of the ships. Under the drawbridge

launches were coming and going from the warships, leaving on the

floating piers the crews celebrating their shore-leave with scandalous

uproar.

The _Mare Nostrum_ remained isolated while the workmen from the arsenal

were installing on the poop rapid-fire guns and the wireless telegraph

apparatus. No one could come aboard that did not belong to the crew.

The sailors' families were waiting for them on the wharf, and Caragol

had occasion to become acquainted with many Breton women,--mothers,

sisters, or fiancées of his new friends. He liked these women: they

were dressed in black with full skirts, and white, stiff caps which

brought to his mind the wimples of the nuns.... Some tall, stout girls

with blue and candid eyes laughed at the Spaniard without understanding

a single word. The old women with faces as dark and wrinkled as winter

apples touched glasses with Caragol in the low cafes near the port.

They all could do honor to a goblet in an opportune moment, and had

great faith in the saints. The cook did not require anything more....

Most excellent and charming people!

Certain lads decorated with the _Croix de Guerre_ used to relate their

experiences to him. They were survivors of the battalion of marines who

defended Dixmude. After the battle of the Marne they had been sent to

intercept the enemy on the side of Flanders. There were not more than

six thousand of them and, aided by a Belgian division, they had

sustained the onrush of an entire army. Their resistance had lasted for

weeks:--a combat of barricades in the street, of struggles the length

of the canal with the bloodiness of the ancient piratical forays. The

officers had shouted their orders with broken swords and bandaged

heads. The men had fought on without thinking of their wounds, covered

with blood, until they fell down dead.

Caragol, hitherto little interested in military affairs, became most

enthusiastic when relating this heroic struggle to Ferragut, simply

because his new friends had taken part in it.

"Many died, Captain.... Almost half of them. But the Germans couldn't

make any headway.... Then, on learning that the marines had been no

more than six thousand, the generals tore their hair. So great was

their wrath! They had supposed that they were confronted by dozens of

thousands.... It was just great to hear the lads relate what they did

there."

Among these "lads" wounded in the war, who had passed to the naval

reserve and were manning the _Mare Nostrum_, one was especially

distinguished by the old man's partiality. He could talk to him in

Spanish, because of his transatlantic voyages, and besides he had been

born in Vannes.

If the youth ever approached the cook's dominions he was invariably met

with a smile of invitation. "A refresco, Vicente?" The best seat was

for him. Caragol had forgotten his name as not worth while. Since he

came from Vannes, he could not have any other name but Vicente.

The first day that they chatted together, the marine, in love with his

country, described to the cook the beauties of Morbihan,--a great

interior sea surrounded with groves and with islands covered with

pines. Among the venerable antiquities of the city was the Gothic

cathedral with its many tombs, among them that of a Spanish saint,--St.

Vicente Ferrer.

This gave a tug at Caragol's heart-strings. He had never before

bothered to find out where the famous apostle of Valencia was

entombed.... He recalled suddenly a strophe of the songs of praise that

the devotees of his land used to sing before the altars of this saint.

Sure enough he had gone to die in "Vannes, in Brittainy,"--a mere

geographical name which until then had lacked any significance for

him.... And so this lad was from Vannes? Nothing more was needed to

make Caragol regard him with the respect due to one born in a

miraculous country.

He made him describe many times the tomb of the saint, the only one in

the transept of the cathedral, the moth-eaten tapestries that

perpetuated his miracles, the silver bust which guarded his heart....

Furthermore, the principal portal of Vannes was called the gate of St.

Vicente and recollections of the saint were still alive in their

chronicles.

Caragol proposed to visit this city also when the ship should return to

Brest. Brittainy must be very holy ground, the holiest in the world,

since the miracle-working Valencian, after traversing so many nations,

had wished to die there.

It, therefore, did not produce the slightest astonishment that this

slip of a boy who had been picked up at Dixmude covered with wounds,

was now showing himself sane and vigorous.... On board the _Mare

Nostrum_ he was the head gunner. He and two comrades had charge of the

quickfirers. For Caragol there was not the slightest doubt as to the

fate of every submarine that should venture to attack them; the "lad

from Vannes" would send them to smithereens at the first shot. A

picture post-card, a gift of the lad from Brittany, showing the tomb of

the saint, occupied the position of honor in the galley. The old man

used to pray before it as though it were a miracle-working print, and

the _Cristo del Grao_ was relegated to second place.

One morning Caragol went in search of the captain and found him writing

in his stateroom. He had just come from making purchases in the shore

market. While passing through the _rue de Siam_, the most important

road in Brest, where the theaters are, the moving-picture shows, and

the cafes, he had had an encounter. "An unexpected meeting," he

continued with a mysterious smile. "Who do you suppose it was with?..."

Ferragut shrugged his shoulders. And, noting his indifference, the old

man could not keep the secret any longer.

"The lady-bird!" he added. "That handsome, perfumed lady-bird that used

to come to see you.... The one from Naples.... The one from

Barcelona...." The captain turned pale, first with surprise and then

with anger. Freya in Brest!... Her spy work was reaching even here?...

Caragol went on with his story. He was returning to the ship, and she,

who was walking through the _rue de Siam,_ had recognized him, speaking

to him affectionately.

"She asked to be remembered to you.... She has been informed that no

foreigner can come aboard. She told me that she had tried to come to

see you."

The cook began a search through his pockets, extricating a bit of

wrinkled paper, a white sheet snatched from an old letter.

"She also gave me this paper, written right there in the street with a

lead pencil. You will know what it says. I did not wish to look at it."

Ferragut, on taking the paper, recognized immediately her handwriting,

although uneven, nervous and scribbled with great precipitation. Six

words, no more:--"Farewell, I am going to die."

"Lies! Always lies!" said the voice of prudence in his brain.

He tore up the paper and passed the rest of the morning very much

preoccupied.... It was his duty to defend himself against this

espionage that had even established its base in a port of war.... Every

boat anchored near the _Mare Nostrum_ was menaced by Freya's power to

give information. Who knew but what her mysterious communications would

bring about their attack by a submarine on going out from the roadstead

of Brest!...

His first impulse was to denounce her. Then he repented because of his

absurd scruples of chivalry.... Besides, he would have to explain his

past to the head officers at Brest who knew him very slightly. He was

far from that naval captain at Salonica who had so well understood his

passional errors.

He wished to watch her for himself, and in the evening he went ashore.

He detested Brest as one of the dullest cities of the Atlantic. It was

always raining there, and there was no diversion except the eternal

promenade through the _rue de Siam_, or a bored stay in the cafés full

of seamen and English and Portuguese land-officers.

He went through the public establishments night and day; he made

investigations in the hotels; he hired carriages in order to visit the

more picturesque suburbs. For four days he persisted in his inquiries

without any result.

He began to doubt Uncle Caragol's veracity. Perhaps he had been drunk

on returning to the ship, and had made up such an encounter. But the

recollection of that paper written by her discounted such a

supposition.... Freya was in Brest.

The cook explained it all simply enough when the captain besieged him

with fresh questions.

"The lady-bird must just be passing through. Perhaps she flitted away

that same evening.... That meeting was just a chance encounter."

Ferragut had to give up his investigations. The defensive work on the

ship was about terminated and the holds contained their cargo of

projectiles for the army of the Orient and various unmounted guns. He

received his sailing orders, and one gray and rainy morning they lifted

anchor and steamed out of the bay of Brest. The fog made even more

difficult the passage between the reefs that obstruct this port. They

passed before the lugubrious Bay of the Dead, ancient cemetery of

sailboats, and continued their navigation toward the south in search of

the strait in order to enter the Mediterranean.

Ferragut felt increased pride in examining the new aspect of the _Mare

Nostrum_. The wireless telegraph was going to keep him in contact with

the world. He was no longer a merchant captain, slave of destiny,

trusting to good luck, and incapable of repelling an attack. The

radiographic stations were watching for him the entire length of the

coast, advising him of changes in his course that he might avoid the

ambushed enemy. The apparatus was constantly hissing and sustaining

invisible dialogues. Besides, mounted on the stern was a cannon covered

with a canvas hood, ready to begin work.

The dreams of his childhood when he used to devour stories of corsairs

and novels of maritime adventures seemed about to be realized. He was

now entitled to call himself "Captain of Sea and War" like the ancient

navigators. If a submarine should pass before him, he would attack it

from the prow; if it should try to pursue him, he would respond with

the cannon.

His adventurous humor actually made him anxious for one of these

encounters. A maritime combat had not yet occurred in his life, and he

wished to see how these modest and silent men who had made war on land

and contemplated death at close range, would demean themselves.

It was not long before his desire was realized. One morning on the high

seas near Lisbon, when he had just fallen asleep after a night on the

bridge, the shouts and runnings of the crew awakened him.

A submarine had broken the surface about fifteen hundred yards astern

and was coming toward the _Mare Nostrum_, evidently fearing that the

merchant-boat would try to escape; but in order to oblige it to stop,

its gun fired two shells which fell into the water.

The steamer moderated its pace but only to place itself in a more

favorable position and to maneuver with more sea room, with its arms at

the stern. At the first shot the submarine began to recede, keeping a

more prudent distance, surprised to receive an answer to its

aggression.

The combat lasted half an hour. The shots repeated themselves on both

sides with the speed of rapid fire artillery. Ferragut was near the

gun, admiring the calm coolness with which its servants manipulated it.

One always had a projectile in his arms ready to give it to his

companion who rapidly introduced it into the smoking chamber. The

gunner was concentrating all his life in his eyes, and bending over the

cannon, moved it carefully, seeking the sensitive part of that gray and

prolonged body that was rising to the surface of the water as though it

were a whale.

Suddenly a cloud of kindling wood flew near the steamer's prow. An

enemy's projectile had just hit the edge of the roofs that covered the

galley and mess rooms. Caragol, who was standing in the door of his

dominions, raised his hands to his hat. When the yellowish and

evil-smelling cloud dissolved, they saw him still standing there,

scratching the top of his head, bare and red.

"It's nothing!" he cried. "Just a bit of wood that drew a little of my

blood. Fire away!... Fire!"

He was yelling directions, inflamed by the shooting. The drug-like

smell of the smokeless powder, the dull thud of the detonations

appeared to intoxicate him. He was leaping and wringing his hands with

the ardor of a war-dancer.

The gunners redoubled their activity; the shots became continuous.

"There it is!" yelled Caragol. "They have hit it.... They have hit it!"

Of all those aboard, he was the one who could least appreciate the

effects of the shots for he could scarcely discern the silhouette of

the submersible. But in spite of that he continued bellowing with all

the force of his faith.

"Now you've hit it!... Hurrah! Hurrah!"

And the strange thing was that the enemy instantly disappeared from the

blue surface. The gunners still sent some shots against their

periscope. Then there was left in the place which they had occupied

only a white and glistening expanse.

The steamer went toward this enormous spot of oil whose undulations

were twinkling with sunflower-like reflections.

The marines uttered shouts of enthusiasm. They were sure of having sent

the submersible to the bottom. The officers were less optimistic. They

had never seen one raise itself up vertically, tilting its stern high

in the air before sinking. Perhaps it simply had been damaged and

obliged to hide.

The loss of the submarine was a sure thing in Caragol's estimation, and

he considered it entirely unnecessary to ask the name of the one who

had blown it to smithereens.

"It must have been that lad from Vannes.... He's the only one who could

have done it."

For him the other gunners simply did not exist. And, inflamed by his

enthusiasm, he wriggled out of the hands of the two seamen who had

begun to bandage his head with a deftness learned in land combats.

Ferragut was entirely satisfied with this encounter. Although he could

not be absolutely certain of the destruction of the enemy, the fact

that his boat had saved itself would spread abroad the fact that the

_Mare Nostrum_ was entirely capable of self-defense.

His joy took him to Caragol's domains.

"Well done, old man! We're going to write to the Ministry of Marine to

give you the _Croix de Guerre_."

The cook, taking his words in all seriousness, declined the honor. If

such recompense were to be given to any one, let it be handed to "that

lad from Vannes." Then he added as though reflecting the captain's

thoughts:

"I like to sail in this fashion.... Our steamer has gotten its teeth,

and now it will not have to run like a frightened rabbit.... They'll

have to let it go on its way in peace because now it can bite."

The rest of the journey toward Salonica was without incident.

Telegraphy kept it in contact with the instructions arriving from the

shore. Gibraltar advised it to sail close to the African coast; Malta

and Bizerta pointed out that it could continue forward since the

passage between Tunis and Sicily was clear of enemies. From distant

Egypt tranquillizing messages came to meet them while they were sailing

among the Grecian Islands with the prow toward Salonica.

On their return, they were to take freight to the harbor of Marseilles.

Ferragut did not have to bother about the boat while it was at anchor.

The French officials were the ones who made arrangements with the

harbor authorities. He merely had to be the justification for the flag,

a captain of a neutral country, whose presence certified to the

nationality of the vessel. Only on the sea did he recover command,

every one becoming obedient to those on the bridge.

He wandered through Marseilles as at other times, passing the first

hours of the evening on the terraces of the _Cannebière_.

An old Marseillaise, captain of a merchant steamer, used to chat with

him before returning to his office. One afternoon, while Ferragut was

absent-mindedly glancing at a certain Paris daily that his friend was

carrying, his attention was suddenly attracted by a name printed at the

head of a short article. Surprise made him turn pale while at the same

time something contracted within his breast. Again he spelled out the

name, fearing that he had been under an hallucination. Doubt was

impossible: it was very clear,--_Freya Talberg_. He took the paper from

his comrade's hand, disguising his impatience by an assumption of

curiosity.

"What is the war news to-day?..."

And while the old sailor was giving him the news, he read feverishly

the few lines grouped beneath that name.

He was bewildered. The heading told little to one ignorant of the

preceding facts to which the periodical alluded. These lines were

simply voicing a protest against the government for not having made the

famous Freya Talberg pay the penalty to which she had been sentenced.

The paragraph terminated with mention of the beauty and elegance of the

delinquent as though to these qualities might be attributed the delay

in punishment.

Ferragut put forth all his efforts to give his voice a tone of

indifference.

"Who is this individual?" he said, pointing to the heading of the

article.

His companion had some difficulty in recalling her. So many things were

happening because of the war....

"She is a _boche_, a spy, sentenced to death.... It appears that she

did a great deal of work here and in other ports, sending word to the

German submarines about the departure of our transports.... They

arrested her in Paris two months ago when she was returning from

Brest."

His friend said this with a certain indifference. These spies were so

numerous!... The newspapers were constantly publishing notices of their

shooting:--two lines, no more, as though treating of an ordinary

casualty.

"This Freya Talberg," he continued, "has had enough said about her

personality. It seems that she is a _chic_ woman,--a species of lady

from a novel. Many are protesting because she has not yet been

executed. It is sad to have to kill one of her sex,--to kill a woman

and especially a beautiful woman!... But nevertheless it is very

necessary.... I believe that she is to be shot at any moment."