I met Manech Argouarch for the second time at Brest some six years
ago. My friend who keeps the _Civette Nantaise_ in the Rue de
Siam--probably the only place in Brest where cigars are sold in
smokable condition--has kept me informed from time to time concerning
interesting items of local history. From his letters I have put
together the story of Manech. When I knew the man he was a wild,
dissolute fellow, but, like many vagabonds, fortune had endowed him
with a charming mate. Ten years younger than Manech, she was a tiny
wisp of a woman. As far as I could judge, the pair were happy together
in their own way.
When the war had run its course for some months Argouarch found
his fishing-boat sadly short-handed, for the crews of most of the
fishing-vessels were taken as conscripts. At this juncture Elène, his
wife, went aboard, and did what she could to help.
It chanced that one day in the spring of last year a gale sprang up
suddenly when they were a long way out at sea. A terrific sea got up,
and Manech had to heave-to as best he could, and endeavour to ride out
the storm. Early in the morning the gale broke. The wind moderated
sensibly, but the swell was still exceedingly heavy. Meanwhile the
little boat was in a sorry plight, with one of the masts down and the
rigging lying tangled over the deck.
Soon after nine o'clock in the morning Manech saw the periscope of a
submarine away on the port bow. Emerging from the water, the sinister
craft drew alongside, and a young German lieutenant came aboard. He
wanted provisions and fresh water. Realizing the futility of resistance
Manech and the boy Becsalé brought up on deck the whole of their
available supplies. The German, however, was not satisfied. He said he
would search the craft himself.
Elène had been instructed to hide herself in the tiny cabin, and when
the German climbed down the hatchway, thinking he would probably seek
to do her harm, she took up a big clasp-knife from the table and hid it
in the folds of her dress. The German's search proved without avail,
but he was more than interested in the pretty Elène. He seized her
hand, and attempted to kiss it, but Elène wrenched herself from his
grasp, and in a second stood in a corner of the cabin, holding the
knife to her breast, and threatening to plunge it into her bosom if he
attempted to approach. She was too terrified to scream.
Meanwhile Argouarch, who had been aloft furling a small storm
stay-sail, descended into the cabin, wondering what had become of the
German. When he saw his wife with the knife at her breast he hurled
himself on the German in mad rage. The fight was short and fierce.
Hearing the scuffle, three German sailors who were on deck hurried
down, overpowered the unfortunate Manech and bore him, more dead than
alive, into the submarine. Then one of their look-out men reported a
vessel away on the lee bow, steaming hard towards them. It was a French
destroyer. Within a few moments the submarine submerged again, and
speedily disappeared from sight.
Elène came into harbour soon afterwards, a French sailor being put
aboard to navigate the crippled fishing-boat to safety. For days after
her arrival in Brest there were stories about as to an enemy submarine
having been sunk by a French torpedo craft, but nothing definite is
known.
As to the fate of Manech, nothing whatever has been heard. But every
day Elène is out early upon the highest cliff, peering through the sea
mist across Brest Roads. Her companions are lonely women whose husbands
and lovers have been swallowed up by the sea. They strain their eyes
over the waters, hoping against hope, but their search is always in
vain.