It was hardly daybreak when Elise and Firmin appeared on the wharf,
pushing before them a wheelbarrow, on which were their sailors’ kits.
They were the first to arrive. The tide had gone out and, aground in
the mud, the sleeping boats seemed to await in the silence of the dawn
the hour for waking. Such of them as were being made ready for sea
could be told by the marks of recent overhauling and their newly tarred
rigging. Here lay the _Bon-Pêcheur_, a sloop, broad in the waist but
tapering gracefully, and well-designed to cut the waves. All was in
order on deck. The closed hatches showed that supplies were stowed away
and everything ready.
Elise stopped short. From the head of the wharf, across the masts and
rigging, she could perceive the Bay of Somme, which the sun was just
softly lighting up. Since her childhood she had known this great clear
bay, with its gray outlines softening away into fog. She would not see
it again that night. Every day she had come faithfully to give it a
look. She loved it, not only when the tide was high and it reflected
the brightness of the heavens in its palpitating waves, but when,
though bare at low tide, it was still beautiful, with its banks of red
sand and its streams of water winding through it to the great sea.
Each day she had seen on the opposite bank the outline of the town of
Saint-Valery, raised like a fortress on a rock of verdure. Then she
had turned her happy eyes toward her own modest fishing hamlet, which,
on this side of the bay, sheltered itself discreetly behind the sandy
dunes. She would see none of these things that night. She loved them
truly, as one loves one’s birthplace, but she loved also the great sea
which, four miles away, marked by a crystal line, all white with foam,
the limit of the bay. Elise had often crossed that line in her father’s
boat, and during three years of fishing she had been accustomed to sea
life, but she had never quitted the waters of the English Channel, and
it was in new seas that she was to be through the long hard-worked
months of a fishing cruise. Her breast swelled with longing and a vague
inquietude, and she let her thoughts wander toward that infinity of
heaven and water.
The sands of the bay disappeared little by little under the rising
tide, whose surface, swept by ripples, announced a steady breeze. It
was an excellent omen. In less than six days they ought to be on the
fishing-grounds, a hundred miles north of Scotland.
But, coming back to the thought of her departure, Elise went down
from the wharf to the sands, and deposited her burden just under
the bows of the _Bon-Pêcheur_, and, while Firmin went to return the
wheelbarrow, she seated herself on her sack, her hands joined, her
thoughts wandering to the far-distant region with which she was to make
acquaintance. Absorbed in her revery, she did not hear heavy steps
behind her, and started under a strong hand which struck her familiarly
on the shoulder.
“Elise, you are earlier than the tide. They are good sailors who rise
before the fish.”
“Should it not be so, Cousin Florimond? One must take trouble if one
wishes to escape it.”
“You are right. That is a good sailor’s rule. Do you know, you look
very well under your new sou’wester? The keenest eye could hardly tell
you from the other sailor lads.”
“I will be a man when work is to be done, Cousin Florimond. I have no
fear of work.”
“_Parbleu!_ All will turn out well if your Firmin does not show himself
obstinate. He is a little inclined that way. He does not always do as
one tells him.”
“Have no fear, Cousin Florimond, he will obey you as willingly as his
father. Surely, that is one’s duty to the skipper.”
“Surely. Besides I shall not favor him more than any other. Fishing
is hard work, but it makes good sailors. In three seasons he will
understand his business. Then you will be able to leave him alone and
talk of a husband. A husband is never lacking to a worthy girl.”
Then, with that rolling step which sailors affect so much on land,
the skipper walked to the boat’s stern. He seemed to step with the
whole weight of his body upon the ground, but hardly had he felt the
guards of the sloop under his hand than he recovered his agility,
notwithstanding his great leather boots and his oil-suit. Taking
advantage of the rudder-post and of the sloping side of the boat, in
three tugs of his arms, and four steps, he hoisted himself on deck. And
there, striding about, he was truly superb with his tall figure, his
broad shoulders, his curving chest, his strong arms, and his sturdy
back. The sailor is beautiful only on his boat.
At that moment Florimond had the bearing which inspires all leaders at
the hour of action. He inhaled long draughts of the breeze, and with
keen eye he examined the sky to see the signs of the weather.
“Look then, Elise, the weather seems not half bad. One never lies idle
when one works with the breeze. Hand over the sacks.” He stretched
his arm out to receive them, and then, lying down flat, reached down,
seized the girl with both hands and, raising himself all at once,
lifted her on deck.
“Now you are one of the crew, Elise. If the others are disagreeable, I
will protect you. Every man has his rights on a boat.”
“Thanks, Cousin Florimond, but, as long as I do my work without
flinching, they will have no reason to speak ill of me. If they are
disagreeable, I will defend myself.”
“Shall not I be there to make them hold their tongues?” said a little
voice, behind the young girl, a boy’s voice, bold and confident. It was
Firmin, who had returned. He planted himself, with his arms crossed and
his head thrown back, before his sister.
“There is one man who talks against us. I have heard him! I will make
him eat his words.”
And as if to defy the enemy he awaited, he looked resolutely at the
hamlet.
From it the sailors were coming in a body, their wives and children
with them. They walked silently beside a cart, which made its way
slowly under the weight of their kits. When they reached the boat,
there broke out at once the noise of getting aboard and the shouts
of farewell. For the tide was beginning to lick the keel of the
_Bon-Pêcheur_, and the women and children ran for safety to the wharf
where, crowded together, they awaited her departure. Softly the sea
lifted the sloop, which floated like a sea-gull on the wave.
“Hoist the jib and the stay-sail. Hoist the jigger.” And the canvas,
forward and aft, spread itself as if to try the breeze.
“Trip the anchor!” And the chain, as the anchor came home, ground
against the gunwale.
“Hoist the main-sail!” Two hundred and twenty yards of canvas rose
in air by force of hand. All tugged together, Elise among the rest.
Knowing that she was watched she strained every nerve; her body grew
rigid at the work. “Oh! hiss!” Her voice sounded clear above the hoarse
shouts of her companions. “Oh! hiss!” The pulleys groaned under the
ropes, and the great sail hung ready to take the wind.
“Give her a full.” The top-sails snapped out. All the canvas was
trimmed to catch the breeze, and, set in motion by a shift of the helm,
the _Bon-Pêcheur_ sped gayly northward in the freshness and purity of
the morning.
But a small boat hailed them. A rope was thrown, and Silvere, climbing
up it, quickly reached the deck. He walked straight to the skipper, and
in a rough tone explained the reason of his coming. He had an account
to settle with Barnabé.
Barnabé was called. He was a hap-hazard sailor, half landsman half
seaman, such as are engaged for the herring fishery.
An unruly wag and a great bungler at work, he had not his equal in
gathering a crew about him to listen to his bluster. He was brave
when occasion called for it, through vanity, and he had acquired the
reputation among the fishermen of a man who feared nothing. Although
his character was known, he was engaged from force of habit. When one
has to choose among landsmen, one man is as good as another.
His quarrelsome tongue spared no one. Scarcely had he learned of
Elise’s engagement than he began to trouble the whole village with his
threats. Was it right to allow women to steal men’s work? Theirs would
be strong arms to handle the canvas in the teeth of a squall! And the
night before, in an outburst of drunken speech, he had made threats.
They would see if he would allow his bread to be eaten by this Lison.
He would rather send her head-first overboard.
[Illustration: THE “BON PÊCHEUR” SPED GAYLY NORTHWARD.
Chap. 2.]
As soon as he was awake that morning Silvere had heard these threats,
and, changed as they were in passing from mouth to mouth, they alarmed
him greatly. His character was sweet and thoughtful; he had thus a
tendency to exaggerate the worst side of things, and, lost in fear for
Elise, he had run to the pier, but too late. Then he had thrown himself
into his boat, urging it on in order to overtake the _Bon-Pêcheur_ and
prevent trouble. Like all gentle men, he had over-excited himself that
he might appear more strong. When he saw himself face to face with
Barnabé, he raised his voice, to intimidate him.
“You were talking of Elise last night. If you dare to trouble her, I
will make an end of you when you return.”
“Where do you get a right to defend her? Is she your wife? She is not
in love with you, I fancy, you old tub with gaping seams.”
“I speak, because we are betrothed.”
“She has promised herself to you, you great snuffer of the moon? She
has, then, a fancy for sallow men only.”
“Be quiet, great blackguard, or I will take down your conceit.”
“Don’t try it, I have my stingers to defend me.”
And Barnabé showed his fists doubled up for attack. Small, but thickset
and muscular in proportion, he squared himself on his short legs
before the tall man who stood before him, taken aback by his uncertain
movements.
A fight appeared imminent. The deck was nearly deserted, the greater
part of the crew busying themselves in arranging their effects in the
forecastle. Two men stationed in the bow took no notice, busy as they
were in managing the jib, while astern, the sailor at the jigger,
while he handled his sheet, looked on and laughed like an amateur of
fisticuffs. He seemed truly happy at this unexpected exhibition which
was coming off so near him. As to the skipper, not being able to leave
the tiller, he swore and threatened; then, despairing of silencing the
adversaries, he tried to drown their voices, and shouted his orders at
his loudest.
“Ready to come about. Let go the jib-sheet.”
And the boat tacked, drawing away at right angles to avoid a perilous
set of the current; but all the same the quarrel continued, more
clamorous and more deafening.
“Great child of misery, sailor by sufferance, you gape in the seams.
You should be careened and calked.”
“Wretched landlubber, ship’s cook, you should remain in your pantry.
The fish which has gone ashore is spoiled for the sea.”
“Speak for yourself, you badly salted codfish.”
“Wretched worm.”
In vain the skipper shouted: “Keep away to starboard.” The men no
longer heard him, and the jib, remaining as it was, forced the boat
in an exasperating fashion to port. The skipper broke out in fury,
stamping excitedly, and leaning forward shouted:
“Enough, Silvere, I cannot steer the boat. We are at the harbor bar.”
His shouts mingled with those of the sailor astern, who was urging
Barnabé on.
“Hou! Hou! Little one, take a reef in the big fellow’s sail! He is
going to run. Overhaul him amidships.”
Barnabé, as if obeying these suggestions, squared himself like an
athlete throwing out his defiance.
“Come alongside a little, old wreck. Look out for the grapnels.”
“I am not afraid of you, you are like a fish, strong in the head only.”
And among these clamors the useless calls of the skipper:
“Quiet there! Thunder! We are sagging off a point. We shall strike.
Starboard!”
But his orders did not reach the bow, so thoroughly were they cut off
by the torrent of angry words which came clamoring forth like the noise
of a tempest. And above all this tumult could be heard the voice of the
sailor astern:
“Hou! Hou! Little one, overhaul the big fellow amidships! He is too
tall-masted, he will be weak in squalls. Capsize him; turn him keel
upward.”
Barnabé advanced with his fists thrust forward. But in an instant
Silvere’s great hands came down upon him, sent him rolling over and
over even to where the sailor stood, picked him up again like a beaten
dog, and, holding him over the boat’s side, shook him above the yawning
abyss beneath.
“Let go,” bawled the sailor at the jigger, laughing uproariously; “let
go; he is fat enough to float alone.”
Silvere still kept shaking him.
“Barnabé, swear never to do any harm to Elise. Swear, or I will drop
you.” And his two hands tightened their grip.
Barnabé uttered a cry like that of a wounded beast--a cry which cut
the air with its shrillness. From the forecastle came hurrying all the
sailors, snatched from their work by this despairing appeal. Elise was
foremost. She took in the situation at a glance; rushing to the guards
she caught hold of Barnabé, and with a half turn of her arm threw him
on the deck at the skipper’s feet.
But at the same instant without a shock, gently, like a porpoise as he
rises, the _Bon-Pêcheur_ lay over on her side.
“Aground! Thunder!” and the skipper’s shout went like a shiver through
the crew. The pressure of the wind on the sails pressed the keel still
further into the sand. “Let go all!” And in an instant every sail was
flapping, and the _Bon-Pêcheur_ lay still, lying well over, a sight at
once laughable and pitiable, like a stranded whale.
Then, indeed, there were outbursts of rage on the deck. Silvere and
Barnabé were threatened. Elise was accused. It was her fault. Was not
the skipper forewarned? Women are always the cause of trouble. And
Florimond thought to himself that perhaps the sailors were right.