It was the third Sunday in August when Elise, confident in a happy
future and certain that this time she would have good luck, embarked on
the _Jeune-Adolphine_. She had said farewell to Mother Pilote, whom she
left quite disconsolate, and who had wished to soften her solitude by
keeping Barbet. But how could Barbet live away from Elise? He, too, was
going to sea.
It was the beginning of the autumn fishing. They sought the herring
now, not to the north of Scotland, but in the North Sea near the
extreme limits of England. Doubtless the corvette which had rescued
Firmin would be stationed at Edinburgh or Berwick. Elise counted on
finding some way to meet him. In the North Sea the fishing-grounds are
more contracted than in the ocean, the boats are nearer together and
communicate more easily. It would be very strange if they did not meet
either the corvette herself, or at least one of the coasters who run
between the fishers and the nearest English port.
Thanks to Silvere, Elise owned a share in the nets. He had not been
willing that she should be at a disadvantage on account of her poverty,
and had persuaded her to accept a new outfit.
And the third day after the new moon, these nets dropped into the water
for the first time.
The _Jeune-Adolphine_ had reached the fishing-grounds at noon only, but
the breeze and the weather were so favorable that they spread the nets
without delay.
Twilight, with its serene harmony, fell on the sea. When all the nets
had been set and the boat, towed by them, drifted idly in the current,
Elise, fascinated by the beauty of the night, could not make up her
mind to sleep.
Stretched on the gunwale beside Silvere, she watched the golden lights
on the changing sea, which seemed in harmony with her thoughts.
“Silvere, I think that we love each other more tenderly when we are
together in such tranquil scenes. Where away is England?”
For a long time she was silent, looking in the direction where Silvere
had pointed.
“There is where Firmin is. He was too ambitious to be a simple coast
sailor like us. Do not be hurt that I think of him. I am so happy to
know that you love me.”
He said nothing, this big Silvere, so much afraid was he of startling
the tender murmur which just reached his ears. He overtopped Elise by a
full head, and, bent down toward her, he watched her with delight, so
full of life and so beautiful did she seem under this soft light.
“Be sure, Elise, that I am not jealous of Firmin. We will both love
him, as we both love Mother Pilote. You are not envious of her because
I love her. I love you both, but not with the same warmth. It must be
right, because it is human nature.”
During two hours of drifting they talked together, hearing only their
own voice and heedless of the songs that came through the half-open
hatch.
Big Poidevin was drunk. Two hours of his cabin was equivalent with him
to a dozen drinks, just enough to fill him full. But though his brain
might be drowsy his eye was wide open, and when the moment came to take
up the nets he was the first on deck, summoning all the men to work.
“Hollo! Beetle heads! Strike up work.”
Big Poidevin, an old quartermaster, carried his liquor as no other
veteran aboard.
When he was full he was as steady as if he was anchored with four
cables. He was the most solid drinker on the coast. It was his pride,
after a dozen drinks, to keep his balance as steady as if he had dined
on the empty wind.
As to the rest, he was a good liver and a pleasant companion. He had no
family, and took his pleasures only in his bottle and glass. He had a
horror of the shore, where, as he said, he did not love to lie like a
boat aground.
“Hollo! lads! When the capstan snores, the sailor wakes.”
The capstan did not snore yet, but it was evident that he meant to set
it at work.
“Hollo! lads! Wind from the north-east with the moon. We will take up
fish by the binful. Hollo! All on deck.”
At the captain’s call, Elise came with Silvere. They were not of
opinion that it was wise to take up the nets yet. As they had talked,
they had now and then cast an eye on the line of floats, and had
noticed that they had not settled, as was the case under a catch of
fish. The nets were, without doubt, empty.
Their advice was sound. After a long discussion Poidevin agreed to
follow it, and disappeared down the forecastle ladder. He was going
back for another hour to his mug and flask.
“Let us go and sleep like the others, Lise. You will be ill if you
neglect your sleep.”
“No, not to-night, Silvere. It is too delicious. It goes to one’s very
heart. I love to watch the sea, now that it has given back my father.”
“Lise, dreams are not food. A good sailor, to keep strong, must eat and
sleep. Fishing is hard enough when one gets one’s rest.”
“Silvere, look there. The sea seems to be on fire. Is it not flashing?
What say you?”
Yes, it was the flash of the herring which, like a trail of phosphorus,
drew near them rapidly. The wave seemed on fire, so filled was it with
iridescent lights; sapphire blue, emerald green, red gold, shading
off into silvery gleams. It was as if a pageant beneath the water was
advancing, with a bewilderment of gleaming metal and precious gems. It
was impossible to look at it. The moon, ordinarily so white, seemed, in
comparison, of a dirty gray. It looked so dejected that Elise threw it
a glance of pity.
“Is it possible that this light in the sea can snuff out the moon, as
she snuffs out the stars? Silvere, what makes the herring gleam so?
They burn the eyes.”
She buried her face in his shoulder. He, laughing, held her dear head
with his great hand, which he tried to make soft for the task.
“Look, Lise. They are going to rush into our net. Look, it will be like
fireworks.”
As rapidly as a lake of fire which has burst its bounds, the school of
herring advanced, grazing the surface of the water, every back and fin
scintillating with light, and lighting up the night with their blinding
gleams.
“Quick, Lise, they are here.”
There was a splash of fire like burning coals; an electric snapping
through the whole mass, as if a stream, arrested by a wall, had dashed
back on itself in foaming fury. All the nets came to the surface along
their length to the very end, in a gleaming tremor. And the school of
herring, dispersing abruptly, disappeared behind the boat, like the
last rays of an expiring fire.
After the light had passed, and their eyes, accustomed again to the
twilight, could distinguish objects, they saw that the nets were
dragged down under the weight of their strangling, struggling victims.
“Captain, it is time to haul in. The floats are sunk.”
Big Poidevin had had an hour too much. Contrary to his habit, he
scuffled along and staggered. When he tried to mount to the deck, he
missed the rounds of the ladder and fell heavily on the planking.
“This is no time to lose control, captain; the fish can be taken by
armfuls.”
The captain rose to his feet, furious at losing his reputation as a
hard-headed drinker. He bent all his energies to gaining the deck
without further weakness, and, the ladder mounted, he called all the
men with a triumphant shout.
With pantings and groanings from the capstan, and shouts from the
sailors, the work began. As soon as taken aboard the nets were shaken
over the hatches, into which the fish fell in a phosphorescent rain.
Salt was thrown in with them, and when the hatches were filled to the
very top all hands were ready for a chowder. They had caught thousands.
It was the next day at noon only that the work was finished. In a
single night more than half the boat’s bins were full, half of their
catch was taken. Six hundred measures. It was wonderful.
They spread their nets again the next night and the nights after that.
While the fishing is good no one minds hard work and each day brings
variety.
They caught after that, according to the weather, from two hundred
measures at most, down to fifty and even twenty-five.
The chance to meet a school at the right moment does not come twice.