Chapter XXII

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.