Two whole hours the men were busily at work rigging the nets. But
finally the last piece of them went overboard, taking with it the last
float.
The main-sail was taken in, while the little stern-sail was spread to
keep steerage way on the boat. Then the _Bon-Pêcheur_ came into the
wind and let herself be towed by the nets, which drifted gently in the
current.
Two men were enough to watch the deck, because the fish catch
themselves. The herring do the work, one has only to wait for them. The
sailors sauntered back to the forecastle. It was time to eat and sleep.
But Florimond could not make up his mind to follow them without giving
a last look to the fleet of casks, which seemed a line of great birds
placed at equal distances like so many scouts.
All the fortune of the crew floated with the current. What a risk it
was, and, after all, they might catch nothing. Florimond did not feel
quite easy in his mind. Perhaps he had been wrong to be so obstinate.
The herring is like the sardine. It has no fixed habits, it is here
to-day and there to-morrow. Had he been really wise in reckoning on
finding them where he was? But what a knock-down blow to a skipper,
to be obliged to give way to his sailors! He resolved to yield,
nevertheless, if the fish did not put in an appearance at once.
[Illustration: ALL THE FORTUNE OF THE CREW FLOATED WITH THE CURRENT.
Chap. 5.]
Full of disquiet, his frowns showed his internal struggles. As far as
eye could reach he could see neither trace nor sign of fish. Not a
whale, nor one of those voracious birds which follow the herring as
their sure prey. Here and there other boats were fishing in the same
fashion as themselves. They also had selected the same grounds. If he
was deceived, others were also.
Nevertheless there was a chance that the fish were lying under those
banks of light mist which, here in the North, blot out half the
horizon. Above all things the fishermen hate those heavy fogs which,
caused by the heat, come before the season, causing the loss of many a
small boat and entangling many a net. It is an ugly piece of work to
lift more than two thousand fathoms of nets at such a time.
In the North the fogs act as if malicious. Florimond, since he could
not see the fish, tried to smell them, and inhaled a long breath. What
was this in the air, this odor bitter-sweet, whose flavor delighted the
nostrils of the man who recognized it?
A sudden thrill of joy ran through the skipper. In his blue eyes
flashed sudden gleams, and his compressed lips relaxed in a broad
smile. With his two hands he made a telescope to see more clearly, and
to pierce the mist.
Was it not scattering? The breeze had without doubt become stronger,
and was driving the mist before it like a light smoke. The surface of
the sea was clear. Everything became distinct as he looked--the color
of the sea, the density of the wave. There lay the oily proof of the
herrings’ presence. Florimond could see the thick scum whose brackish
odor he had smelled. Had he not been right? The school of black noses
was here, and this was the right place to spread the nets.
In two bounds he was at the forecastle hatch, and with all his strength
he made it resound with the joyful shout:
“All on deck--a herring scum!”
Filled with delight, and drawn by this cry of victory, the men dropped
their food, rushing and overturning one another at the ladder, and
holding fast with feet, with knees, with hands. All nostrils were
distended, all eyes turned in the direction the skipper pointed.
“Was I not right, my lads? Here they are, the black noses, always
faithful to their rendezvous. But they are swimming low. It is not hard
to understand why, with the half breeze one makes out below there in
this last quarter of the moon. The nets are not low enough. Let out
three fathoms.”
The sloop’s boat was instantly dropped into the sea. Four sailors
slipped down a rope into her: two big fellows to row, Chrétien to
steer, an old hand to let out the ropes.
“Get on board, boy.” It was Firmin they called. He was wanted to aid in
the work, and disappeared over the side in his turn.
Elise tried to follow him. She slid down the rope but the canoe had
already its full force. One more would have been in the way.
“Keep back, Lison, you can go next time. Have no fear; we will take
good care of your Firmin.”
Elise was not at all satisfied. The little fellow was so headstrong
that, when she did not have him at her side, she was like a mother in
distress. Hanging on the rope, she called out:
“Chrétien, let me take the helm. It will give you time to finish your
meal and to sleep an hour.”
Too late. The oars cut the water, and they were already at the nearest
cask. Firmin quickly let out three fathoms of rope and then the boat
went on from cask to cask while Elise watched it, as it flew along
lifted softly by the swell.
She was still clinging to her rope, swinging over the water, and in her
sadness of heart had hardly thought of herself.
“Lise, what are you after? Do you want to swim along with them? Your
Firmin is lost for a couple of hours only.”
Then reaching down over the side, hauling at the same time on the rope,
and lifting Elise, Florimond raised the young girl to the deck. Hardly
was she on her feet when she hurried to the gunwale, continuing to
follow the boat with eyes anxious and tender.
“Eh, Lise, it is not healthy in our trade to have a heart so at the
mercy of the wave. Why do you look in that direction? It is much better
on the other side.” And with his arm stretched toward the North,
Florimond showed her the oily scum which lay thick on the surface of
the water over a space of many miles.
“What a puddle! Have you ever seen it promise as well?”
He drew Elise forward where she would catch the wind from the scum, and
wished her to smell the odor. She distended her nostrils in nervous
efforts, as if she was going to inhale all at once these riches which
the sea offered.
“There is more than one mess of fish there. It is a shame that they lie
so low. They will not travel at all to-day, at least unless they change
their mind after noon. These hunters after adventure are governed only
by whims. I do not know what they have seen to make them lie at the
bottom. See how the birds dive after them.”
A flight of gray birds specked the sky like a sombre cloud, but to
learn anything from their behavior needed the eye of a sailor, an eye
accustomed to grasp, in all the completeness of detail, things most
distant and most fugitive.
Florimond had seen clearly these hungry birds, and it was from them
that he knew to what length to drop his net. Flying to a great height
and then closing their wings, they let themselves drop headlong with
all their weight, so as to dive to the bottom of the sea. It is their
fashion of catching the fish when he swims low.
Elise was not at all interested in their doings. Fixed in one spot she
watched the changes in the horizon, which now appeared as a straight
line, now disappeared softly behind thin and formless vapors. There was
a rapid and continuous play as the wind chased, with all swiftness, the
gray and transparent mist. Then the changing fog formed cliffs, and
all at once, breaking out from the circle which bound it, spread like a
thick white cloud. The breath of the North congealed into a heavy fog
as it left his mighty lungs.
It seemed like the unfolding of a mighty winding-sheet, ready to bury
under its thick woof the infinite expanse of heaven and sea. As if she
already felt the cold enveloping her, Elise shivered:
“Quick, Cousin Florimond, quick, quick; see the fog! I will blow the
horn for the boat. How will they be able to find their way back?”
“They will grope from cask to cask. There are old hands on board; I
have no fear for them.”
“All the same, I would like better to be with Firmin. I will blow the
horn. I have an idea that he will recognize my voice.”
While the young girl ran to the forecastle to get the horn Florimond,
half stupefied, watched the approach of this white cloud, which
immediately enveloped, in a mournful silence, the school of herring,
the sea, the boats, and the men.
The clamorous birds gave hoarse cries as they flew to and fro, but
already the fog hid them from sight. Florimond threw a last glance at
the scum, which was disappearing like a fortune snatched away as soon
as seen. He saw at the same time the neighboring fishing-boats, which
were making haste to take up their nets. Then, close at hand, tacking
about, a _flambart_, which, in its movements to and fro, had less the
air of a regular fisherman than of a coaster pressed into the service.
Decidedly this _flambart_ acted suspiciously. During the last half
hour it had sailed from one boat to another, and had run along the
length of the nets. Its outlines blended into an uncertain mass through
the puffs of fog which commenced to surround it. It seemed to broaden,
to rise in height, to enormously increase in size, and then to vanish
like a phantom of darkness.
Then the veil of fog reached the _Bon-Pêcheur_, and she was suddenly
enveloped with a white night damp, cold and penetrating. Florimond
stroked his beard, which was already dripping with wet. He breathed
into the dampness to judge of its thickness and resistance, and lowered
his glance in order to see exactly how nearly objects close at hand
were obscured.
“It is too heavy to last,” he said. “There will be no risk in leaving
the nets in the water.”
At this moment, from the bow of the sloop was heard a musical note,
a long blast followed by two slower ones. It seemed as if the name
_Bon-Pêcheur_ had been called out in two plaintive words in the midst
of those stifling surroundings.
Elise was blowing the trumpet with all her might in the direction of
the small boat. And when her breath gave out and she stopped to rest,
she raised her black eyes and tried to pierce the white cloud, in the
hope of being able to discover the dear form for which she was waiting.
Then she listened, motionless, thinking that she heard the noise of the
oars.
Could they not hear then, the men in the small boat: Firmin, Chrétien,
the two big fellows, and the old sailor? Elise blew again. She put all
her strength into a far-reaching blast. A heavy sound came back. Could
it be an echo from this ocean of fog? It came from another fisherman;
their signals crossed. Could they have out a boat also?
Then a figure came out of the fog beside Elise, and suddenly, and
almost with rudeness, said:
“Elise, give me the trumpet. It is not a tool for weak chests. You only
empty your lungs without making your comrades hear.”
And with a blast that made the deck tremble, Florimond blew into it.
His chest was hollowed in by the effort. One would have said the
winding-sheet of fog was torn asunder. Two other, three other, horns
answered by blasts nearly as sonorous.
“You can hear more plainly. It is the end of the trouble. Elise, you
will soon see your Firmin again.”
But the lull was deceptive. Hardly had the fog lifted when it settled
down again, more thick and more damp than before.
For an hour, while the men in the forecastle took advantage of their
enforced idleness to drink, Florimond made the air resound with his
long blasts, but he only exhausted himself uselessly in these desperate
appeals. The men in the boat, Firmin, Chrétien, the two big fellows,
and the old sailor did not return. Silently, leaning over the gloomy
abyss, Elise looked and listened, listened and looked. Alas! The men in
the canoe did not return.