Never had such a following sea driven a boat as that which, in less
than a quarter of an hour, was hurrying the steamer to Treport. It was
a real gale from the north.
The sea was in the wildest commotion, the waves leaping, plunging, and
breaking madly upon one another. Entering the channel of Saint-Valery
was not to be thought of. In heavy weather the Bay of Somme is
impracticable. They had, therefore, laid their course direct to Treport.
They left behind them, as they flew on, many small craft which could
hardly hope to outlive the gale. All those who had followed the steamer
to the Vergoyer had fled, like sea-gulls before a storm, at the first
sign of danger from the north. Were they all safely in port that night?
Built for rough weather, the steamer, in spite of the tempest, soon
reached the quay at Treport. The moment they landed Elise, Silvere,
Chrétien, and Mother Loirat hurried to the point at the foot of the
light-house, to watch other boats enter. But not one was to be seen on
the horizon. Captains choose to run before the wind, rather than to
risk going ashore and breaking up. A boat cannot avoid a bar or a point
as she would, and even if she enters the harbor she has still the piers
to fear. She can dash herself to pieces on these as easily as a dish
on a tavern floor.
But in the north-east, there was a rag of sail lashed by the mad winds.
They could see it for an instant, then it would disappear. Just as they
had made up their minds that it must have gone down, it would reappear.
Elise watched it with greater uneasiness than the others, for she
herself, in a storm as wild as this, had realized how strong the sea is
and how weak a boat.
“Silvere, a seaman’s is a risky trade. But how the sea speaks to the
soul. It is more beautiful than ever when it is so angry. I am more
afraid of it here than if I were fighting it. One fears less for those
exposed to it, if one is working with them.”
A sailor interrupted her. He had orders to bring Elise to the steamer,
where the officials were waiting to see her.
Never had she had such a joyful surprise. As he had promised Florimond,
the under-commissaire of Treport had made all enquiries possible about
Firmin. Finding his colleague from Saint-Valery on board the steamer,
he had communicated to him the results which he had just learned.
Firmin had been met drifting in the _flambart’s_ boat, nearly dying. He
had been two days without food. It was a government cruiser that had
picked him up. For ten days he had been in the delirium of fever, but
with good care he had got well again, and was now no longer a ship’s
boy, but as hardy as an able seaman.
He lived in the top, running along the yards as another man would walk
the deck. He was always the first in places of danger, in furling the
sails or taking a reef, always on the lookout to be first to answer the
boatswain’s whistle. The letter which carried the news of his safety
gave these details of his good conduct aboard.
Firmin had at last realized his ambition. With the innocence of a
child he had always believed that everybody must be rich on one of
these great ships, which he had sometimes seen when at sea with their
shining decks and their well-polished brasses. He had promised himself
to some day try his fortune. Elise should not have to work long for
him. He would engage on one of these big ships, where he would become
a real sailor, and have a coat with gold buttons for holidays. So that
fortune, in putting him on the corvette, served his turn exactly.
Elise recognized Firmin in all that the commissaire said. He was always
so ready, so anxious for rough experiences and fresh opportunities.
“Where is he, sir? Can I go to him? Silvere will go with me.”
But Firmin was far away. The news had come from Iceland. The corvette
had anchored for some weeks in the roadstead of Reikjavik, and had sent
her despatches by some vessel leaving for Europe.
Iceland! That island without trees and roads, where the fogs are as
thick in the valleys as lakes; where the horses have to brush aside
the snow to get at the grass; where the people live like the dead, in
houses dug in the ground. Her father had visited Iceland in old times,
when he was in the navy. He had accompanied one of the officers far
inland to see the snow-clad mountains, which vomit fire and sulphur.
He had nearly lost his life, but Elise was not anxious, for all that.
Firmin was better at facing dangers than her father. She had no fears
for him on that score.
From Iceland, where she had gone to look after the cod-fishers, the
corvette was to return to the Scotch seas to protect the herring
fishers. She would not, therefore, return home before the end of the
autumn campaign, in the first days of December.
“Then I will go to meet him,” said Elise. “I have no right to be
unhappy, since the lad has found the place he likes. He will make a
fine sailor.”
She seemed so sweet and gentle that the commissaire was quite won
over. He promised to find the place where the steamer would make her
headquarters, and to help Elise in all possible ways.
“Thanks, sir. You are very kind. The boy is high-spirited, he is worth
helping.”
Yes, soon she would have her Firmin in her arms, pressed to her heart
as of old. She would see him again, only handsomer and stronger. To go
to him she would engage herself with Silvere on big Poidevin’s boat.
She would ask no wages but her food. Why should he not take her, for
she was strong and had no longer the reputation of bringing bad luck.
But some one was calling her.
From the pier Chrétien was shouting at the top of his voice:
“Mam’selle Elise, Mam’selle Elise! The little sail is coming in. She is
a lugger from Cayeux. She has the bodies of my three brothers. Mother
Loirat has fainted from terror!”
And overcome with excitement, he kept on repeating, as he caught his
breath: “Mam’selle Elise, Mam’selle Elise!”
“I am coming, Chrétien. Give me a moment to tell the commissaire.”
Then turning toward Silvere, Elise took his arm.
“Come with me. My courage never fails when I am near you.”
* * * * *
The lugger was anchored in the harbor, her bow standing out of the
water, her taffrail nearly on a level with it. When they had all
reached her, the two commissaires, Elise, Chrétien, Silvere, and
others, besides a number of little boats at the lugger’s stern, set to
work to lift something lashed there which hung deep in the water.
Ho! hiss! It is heavy. Have a care. The boats will be dragged under.
Halt! Three pairs of great boots come to the surface.
“Mother Loirat, they are your sons. You must calm yourself and stand,
out of respect to them.”
On her knees beside the old woman, Elise cried to her:
“Are you not happy? Your sons’ troubles are over forever.”
The old woman opened her eyes at last, at the moment when the
bodies of her three sons were laid on the pier. Death had not dared
to separate them. They were together, and in that last embrace in
which they had entered into the darkness of the abyss. A sail, which
chance had wrapped about them, had protected them and served as a
winding-sheet, the true winding-sheet of a sailor. The furious waves
had respected their last embrace.
They had been found by the lugger in the very height of the storm,
and she had made fast to them. Running before the wind at random, not
knowing whether to take the open sea or try for port, she had come upon
this melancholy wreckage, which seemed to her crew like a presage of
their own death. They had tried to avoid it, not wishing to embarrass
themselves with a dead weight, but it would not be left. It followed
after in her wake, it pursued her, and through superstitious fears they
had decided to make it fast. It had thus been towed in spite of the
storm, and it was this which had saved them. For it had borne the brunt
of the waves, and had made smoother seas about them, by acting as a
breakwater. Like a rudder it had kept the boat to the wind, and, thanks
to it, she had made port, while many of her fellows would never enter
it again.
The three brothers were laid on the quay. Their faces were calm and
unchanged.
“My poor lads!--my sons!”
And the old woman fainted again in the arms of Elise.
“Listen, dear Mother Loirat. Rouse yourself. Your sons are at rest.
My father will find rest as well. The time of his return has come. He
will have his money in his pocket--you know the pocket of his woollen
jersey--in his sealskin purse. He was so proud when he brought it home
full. It made a great lump on his chest, just over his heart. He will
come back rich, good Mother Loirat, and I will give you all the money.
You shall have no more trouble.”
The old woman did not hear her. She did not recover consciousness
until night, in a bed in the tavern, with Elise and Chrétien on
either side of her. Silvere was on guard beside the three bodies, in
a shed belonging to the coast guard, waiting the end of the official
formalities. He passed the last hours of the day and all night in this
mournful watch, where, to distract his gloomy thoughts, he had the
whistling of the wind and the angry roaring of the sea. At last, when
the first gleams of dawn came, the storm passed away.
It passed, but it had been so violent, and had so torn up the sands,
that it had thrown ashore the bodies of all who lay in the lost
sailors’ gulf.
* * * * *
Hénin was found as if asleep in his boat, which seemed as if it
remembered the way home. The sea gave him back as it had taken him,
stretched in his berth, his lips smiling, his eyes closed. Around him
in the forecastle, under the watery covering which had protected them
from the teeth of time, slept his companions, whom death had surprised
in sleep.
The boat was as uninjured as they whom it had protected. And when the
gale from the north set her free, she was ready to take up work as
boldly as ever.
Thrown up from the sands, and driven forward by the waves, she had
been caught in the current of the bay, and, pushed on by blow after
blow, had gone ashore at almost the spot on the beach where, some days
before, Elise had tried to die, invoking her father’s memory. The
father had come in answer to his daughter’s call.
She was not there to receive him, but Barbet, whom his mistress had
left in the village, wandering along the dunes, welcomed with joyous
cries the return of the old man, who brought back with him the peace
and happiness of his daughter.
All came ashore one after the other: friend Joseph, and Amadée, and
many others who had gone so long that they had been forgotten. They
were found all along the coast between Calais and Fécamp.
This gale has never been forgotten. In all the country around it is
known as “The Martyrs’ Storm.”
* * * * *
Three days passed. The storm had cleared away entirely. The wind was
steady in the north-east, betokening settled weather. The sea reflected
the tender blue of the sky, and all the bay was bright with changing
hues, while across it stood out the sombre mass of Saint-Valery. Above
the dunes, in soft lines, a few white clouds raced along, the last of
their kind; as if to show that the heavens were being swept clean by
the winds.
Nothing could equal the brightness of this August morning. On the road
that climbed the dune, a green triumphal arch was raised, for the
village was celebrating the liberation of her children.
All the dead whom the sea had given up were laid together in the little
low room of the _mairie_. Twenty-three! Brought together again, some by
boats, others in carts, according to where they had been found.
Twenty-three! Not one was missing at the roll-call, and they had had
to wait for the last--the lame man, who, being the lightest, had been
carried furthest by the waves.
In the memory of the old men there had never been so joyful a holiday
in the village. The _mairie_ was adorned with flags and garlands
of flowers, while the houses were dressed in white stuff, and with
bouquets. Here and there beacons, adorned with branches, marked the
route of the procession.
Twenty-three coffins. All the strong men of the place were needed to
carry them. With its white drapings and crowns of radiant flowers, one
might have truly called it a triumphal procession. The first place was
given to Hénin, who was wrapped in a flag. Two lines of young girls, in
long white veils, with baskets on their arms, scattered roses in the
way.
Elise and Barbet walked first, in advance of the mayor. Preceding by a
few steps the long procession of villagers, they seemed as if guiding
this happy band of mourners.
The great gate of the cemetery, with a cross raised on either side,
stood open to receive them, and when the August sun, high overhead,
marked midday, the hour of rest, the twenty-three were laid to sleep in
consecrated ground.
* * * * *
That night, as she entered her cabin with Barbet, Elise had no fears
of seeing her father’s ghost. Surely he was at peace, lying beside her
mother in the corner of the graveyard. A new cross was over him, with a
beautiful inscription, in letters carefully cut out and painted.
“Father, are you at peace at last? Come and tell me. I wish to wipe out
of my memory your worn features and reproachful looks. I wish to see
again your sweet and loving face.”
But her father did not appear. Nothing now troubled his peaceful rest.
Barbet understood it. He placed his paws on Elise’s knees, and looked
into her eyes, trying to say:
“Friend, do not awake sleeping spirits. The time has come to take up
your life again, to go to those who need you, to summon those of whom
you have need.”
Barbet was right. Elise was no longer alone in the world. The happy
hour was at hand when she would take her brother in her arms, the hour
when she would give herself to her betrothed.