Chapter XIX

The four sailors of the _Bon-Pêcheur_ could not return home at once. They were on a schooner bound to Saint-Valery, and had to wait until, at dawn, the outgoing tide would leave the bay dry. But when Silvere reached home that night he spread the news of their return, and their wives, who had waited so long, were only too happy at the thought of going to meet them.

All had donned their best clothes, and, with white bonnets and skirts so gay that they seemed to brighten the night, were ready when, at two o’clock in the morning, the sand began to be bare.

Over the bay it was still night. The lanterns on the far-off quay of Saint-Valery were their only guides, as, in the darkness, the party tramped across the rough sands and splashed through the pools.

The children, sodden with sleep, dragged themselves along, and the poor old lame grandmothers tried to keep up with the young wives, who walked briskly as if their impatience set their pace. First came the wives of the two big fellows. Each carried a baby in her arms, while other children held on to their skirts. Then, in a family group, came the sons and daughters of the old sailor. Some, grown up and married, had babies of their own, others were still only boys and girls. Last of all came Chrétien’s mother, elderly but not yet old, though already uncertain of step.

Good Mother Loirat had had a hard fight during the seventeen years of her widowhood. By severe toil she had won a livelihood from these arid sands, and had brought up four sons. Alas! The sea had taken three of them in one day, all lost with Hénin’s boat. And now that the youngest was old enough to earn their bread, she had believed that he, too, was lost.

Like all unfortunates whom trouble has followed, even in their old age, she had long since given up hope, but her last energies had been awakened by this final blow. Her sweet Chrétien, blond and bright-eyed, was the one of her four sons who most closely resembled his father.

Father Loirat had been one of the crew of a lugger of Hourdel. It fished during the week on the coast, but returned to its own port, every Saturday, to enjoy the Sunday’s rest. His wages were small, and the work uncertain; but if he made a poor living, he was at least able to spend one day a week with his family.

When Mother Loirat thought of those Sundays of other days, her eyes filled with tears. Her husband took a child in each hand and she a third in her arms, and they walked along the dunes under the open sky, or they watched the weather. He lay on the sands, smoking his pipe without a thought. She, seated beside him, hushed the baby to sleep on her knees. They sought no other pleasure than to be together, and good Mother Loirat, who had never known happier days, looked back on them regretfully, as on a vision of the past full of sweet pictures and tender recollections.

One Saturday in September, after a heavy equinoctial tide, her husband had come home burning with fever, his eyes bright, his limbs shaking. Twenty-four hours after he was dead, just one month before his fourth child was born. Loirat was named Chrétien. In memory of him the new-born child was given the same name, and as he grew up he more and more recalled his father by his open face and frank nature.

To Mother Loirat he was always her little lad, her Chrétien, blond and frank-eyed. Had sixteen years then really passed since he was born? Was it not rather yesterday that, during the day tides, she had carried him in her basket on her back, and set him down on the sand, while she bent over busily gathering shells? When she came back to him, weighed down by her load, she forgot her fatigue in watching his sweet little smile.

During the night tides she left him sleeping in her cabin with his elder brothers, all young together. She had worked fast at such times, so as not to return late and find the child awake and crying for her.

To him, the same as to others, came the time when he was old enough to learn a trade. So he had sailed on the _Bon-Pêcheur_. And one night they had come to his mother to tell her that he was lost. She, who had borne without complaining, all the caprices of fate--the loss of her husband and of her three sons, had had for Chrétien her first outbreak of indignation and revolt. Had she not more than paid her debt, and was it not now for others to give to the sea the tribute which she demands, as a kind of revenge, from the men who harass her?

No, she would not believe that her boy was dead, and the night before she had received the news of his return as quietly as if it had been a thing foreseen. But she was none the less impatient. Under her furrowed brow, her keen eye looked through the shadows of the night for the figure she was awaiting.

Dawn was coming, but the distant landmarks were still lost in a heavy obscurity. A strange atmosphere came off the sea. They could hardly breathe. Though it was the end of night it was as warm as at midday. At long intervals, in the south, beyond the steeple of Saint-Valery, pale lightnings furrowed the sky. The storm seemed at times as though it would not reach them. Under the oppression of the weather they had slackened their pace, and at the first gleam of day were only at the middle of the bay. A stream, broad if not deep, which they could not pass without wading up to their knees, brought them to a halt. The wives of the two big sailors had already tucked up their skirts and were passing the children across, tossing them from hand to hand and carrying the larger ones astride their backs.

“Come, good Mother Loirat, it is your turn.”

The poor thing weighed nothing at all. She took up so little room in the strong arms which carried her, that the woman could not help saying kindly:

“One would make little profit off of you, Mother Loirat. You have not more than twenty-five pounds of fat to sell.”

“Trouble is poor nourishment, my poor daughter. When you have eaten as much of it as I, you will have as little flesh on your bones.”

But there was no time to lose in talk. Across the white clouds which were fast increasing, the steeple of the church of Saint-Valery stood out above the dark mass of houses and of trees over which it towered, while at the foot of the town the channel of the Somme was plainly marked, as it took its even course seaward. The women looked about them. They could see nothing, could hear none of those joyful outbursts which ordinarily announce sailors’ return.

They made haste, but so did the storm. Fortunately it was kept back by the very heaviness of its masses of clouds. They had reached the banks of the Somme when the first lightning flash parted the clouds above the church of Saint-Valery, a brutal, blinding flash, followed by such a crash of thunder that the frightened children hid their faces in their mothers’ skirts.

With one voice they shouted for help. Where was the ferryman? Was the man paid by the town to do nothing, to sleep comfortably dry while travellers were drowned in the storm?

“It is no new thing for us to be wet,” said the thin voice of Mother Loirat. “Are we not always drenched by the tides? You are too fond of an easy life. Wait a little, my daughters, you will find times grow harder as you grow older.”

These reflections did not stop their outcry. The storm enveloped all the bay. As they stood on the banks of the stream, too deep for them to cross, exposed to its fury, the group of crying children and clamoring women seemed, with their angry voices, cries, and their shrinking attitudes like shipwrecked seals.

* * * * *

“Are you going to wait there until you are dry?” cried, from behind, a cheerful voice. “You must have a good many clothes to wash.”

“Whom are you mocking, you great sea-gull? Are you not as soaked as the rest? This is a nice time for you to be taking your Lise for a walk.”

When Silvere and Elise joined the group of women and children there was an exchange of words, and explanations without end.

“What brought you on our wet tracks with your Lise?”

Elise, who had been half-hidden behind Silvere’s shoulder, stepped forward to reply. The night before, on her return, she had received a message, and an order to present herself at the Maritime Bureau the next morning at six o’clock, on a matter referring to her father. Like all poor people, she had, to save the fare of the boat which crossed at full tide, preferred to walk, taking advantage of the ebb. This took six hours from her sleep, but she would not lose in a twenty minutes’ trip a whole day’s wages.

Chap. 19.]

All this time nothing appeared on the other bank. With a man’s authority, Silvere gave his advice. Since no one came to help them, they had better follow the stream to the place where the boats lay at anchor. They would be less wretched there, if they could not find any one to ferry them across to the town.