Chapter II

It was hardly daybreak when Elise and Firmin appeared on the wharf, pushing before them a wheelbarrow, on which were their sailors’ kits. They were the first to arrive. The tide had gone out and, aground in the mud, the sleeping boats seemed to await in the silence of the dawn the hour for waking. Such of them as were being made ready for sea could be told by the marks of recent overhauling and their newly tarred rigging. Here lay the _Bon-Pêcheur_, a sloop, broad in the waist but tapering gracefully, and well-designed to cut the waves. All was in order on deck. The closed hatches showed that supplies were stowed away and everything ready.

Elise stopped short. From the head of the wharf, across the masts and rigging, she could perceive the Bay of Somme, which the sun was just softly lighting up. Since her childhood she had known this great clear bay, with its gray outlines softening away into fog. She would not see it again that night. Every day she had come faithfully to give it a look. She loved it, not only when the tide was high and it reflected the brightness of the heavens in its palpitating waves, but when, though bare at low tide, it was still beautiful, with its banks of red sand and its streams of water winding through it to the great sea.

Each day she had seen on the opposite bank the outline of the town of Saint-Valery, raised like a fortress on a rock of verdure. Then she had turned her happy eyes toward her own modest fishing hamlet, which, on this side of the bay, sheltered itself discreetly behind the sandy dunes. She would see none of these things that night. She loved them truly, as one loves one’s birthplace, but she loved also the great sea which, four miles away, marked by a crystal line, all white with foam, the limit of the bay. Elise had often crossed that line in her father’s boat, and during three years of fishing she had been accustomed to sea life, but she had never quitted the waters of the English Channel, and it was in new seas that she was to be through the long hard-worked months of a fishing cruise. Her breast swelled with longing and a vague inquietude, and she let her thoughts wander toward that infinity of heaven and water.

The sands of the bay disappeared little by little under the rising tide, whose surface, swept by ripples, announced a steady breeze. It was an excellent omen. In less than six days they ought to be on the fishing-grounds, a hundred miles north of Scotland.

But, coming back to the thought of her departure, Elise went down from the wharf to the sands, and deposited her burden just under the bows of the _Bon-Pêcheur_, and, while Firmin went to return the wheelbarrow, she seated herself on her sack, her hands joined, her thoughts wandering to the far-distant region with which she was to make acquaintance. Absorbed in her revery, she did not hear heavy steps behind her, and started under a strong hand which struck her familiarly on the shoulder.

“Elise, you are earlier than the tide. They are good sailors who rise before the fish.”

“Should it not be so, Cousin Florimond? One must take trouble if one wishes to escape it.”

“You are right. That is a good sailor’s rule. Do you know, you look very well under your new sou’wester? The keenest eye could hardly tell you from the other sailor lads.”

“I will be a man when work is to be done, Cousin Florimond. I have no fear of work.”

“_Parbleu!_ All will turn out well if your Firmin does not show himself obstinate. He is a little inclined that way. He does not always do as one tells him.”

“Have no fear, Cousin Florimond, he will obey you as willingly as his father. Surely, that is one’s duty to the skipper.”

“Surely. Besides I shall not favor him more than any other. Fishing is hard work, but it makes good sailors. In three seasons he will understand his business. Then you will be able to leave him alone and talk of a husband. A husband is never lacking to a worthy girl.”

Then, with that rolling step which sailors affect so much on land, the skipper walked to the boat’s stern. He seemed to step with the whole weight of his body upon the ground, but hardly had he felt the guards of the sloop under his hand than he recovered his agility, notwithstanding his great leather boots and his oil-suit. Taking advantage of the rudder-post and of the sloping side of the boat, in three tugs of his arms, and four steps, he hoisted himself on deck. And there, striding about, he was truly superb with his tall figure, his broad shoulders, his curving chest, his strong arms, and his sturdy back. The sailor is beautiful only on his boat.

At that moment Florimond had the bearing which inspires all leaders at the hour of action. He inhaled long draughts of the breeze, and with keen eye he examined the sky to see the signs of the weather.

“Look then, Elise, the weather seems not half bad. One never lies idle when one works with the breeze. Hand over the sacks.” He stretched his arm out to receive them, and then, lying down flat, reached down, seized the girl with both hands and, raising himself all at once, lifted her on deck.

“Now you are one of the crew, Elise. If the others are disagreeable, I will protect you. Every man has his rights on a boat.”

“Thanks, Cousin Florimond, but, as long as I do my work without flinching, they will have no reason to speak ill of me. If they are disagreeable, I will defend myself.”

“Shall not I be there to make them hold their tongues?” said a little voice, behind the young girl, a boy’s voice, bold and confident. It was Firmin, who had returned. He planted himself, with his arms crossed and his head thrown back, before his sister.

“There is one man who talks against us. I have heard him! I will make him eat his words.”

And as if to defy the enemy he awaited, he looked resolutely at the hamlet.

From it the sailors were coming in a body, their wives and children with them. They walked silently beside a cart, which made its way slowly under the weight of their kits. When they reached the boat, there broke out at once the noise of getting aboard and the shouts of farewell. For the tide was beginning to lick the keel of the _Bon-Pêcheur_, and the women and children ran for safety to the wharf where, crowded together, they awaited her departure. Softly the sea lifted the sloop, which floated like a sea-gull on the wave.

“Hoist the jib and the stay-sail. Hoist the jigger.” And the canvas, forward and aft, spread itself as if to try the breeze.

“Trip the anchor!” And the chain, as the anchor came home, ground against the gunwale.

“Hoist the main-sail!” Two hundred and twenty yards of canvas rose in air by force of hand. All tugged together, Elise among the rest. Knowing that she was watched she strained every nerve; her body grew rigid at the work. “Oh! hiss!” Her voice sounded clear above the hoarse shouts of her companions. “Oh! hiss!” The pulleys groaned under the ropes, and the great sail hung ready to take the wind.

“Give her a full.” The top-sails snapped out. All the canvas was trimmed to catch the breeze, and, set in motion by a shift of the helm, the _Bon-Pêcheur_ sped gayly northward in the freshness and purity of the morning.

But a small boat hailed them. A rope was thrown, and Silvere, climbing up it, quickly reached the deck. He walked straight to the skipper, and in a rough tone explained the reason of his coming. He had an account to settle with Barnabé.

Barnabé was called. He was a hap-hazard sailor, half landsman half seaman, such as are engaged for the herring fishery.

An unruly wag and a great bungler at work, he had not his equal in gathering a crew about him to listen to his bluster. He was brave when occasion called for it, through vanity, and he had acquired the reputation among the fishermen of a man who feared nothing. Although his character was known, he was engaged from force of habit. When one has to choose among landsmen, one man is as good as another.

His quarrelsome tongue spared no one. Scarcely had he learned of Elise’s engagement than he began to trouble the whole village with his threats. Was it right to allow women to steal men’s work? Theirs would be strong arms to handle the canvas in the teeth of a squall! And the night before, in an outburst of drunken speech, he had made threats. They would see if he would allow his bread to be eaten by this Lison. He would rather send her head-first overboard.

Chap. 2.]

As soon as he was awake that morning Silvere had heard these threats, and, changed as they were in passing from mouth to mouth, they alarmed him greatly. His character was sweet and thoughtful; he had thus a tendency to exaggerate the worst side of things, and, lost in fear for Elise, he had run to the pier, but too late. Then he had thrown himself into his boat, urging it on in order to overtake the _Bon-Pêcheur_ and prevent trouble. Like all gentle men, he had over-excited himself that he might appear more strong. When he saw himself face to face with Barnabé, he raised his voice, to intimidate him.

“You were talking of Elise last night. If you dare to trouble her, I will make an end of you when you return.”

“Where do you get a right to defend her? Is she your wife? She is not in love with you, I fancy, you old tub with gaping seams.”

“I speak, because we are betrothed.”

“She has promised herself to you, you great snuffer of the moon? She has, then, a fancy for sallow men only.”

“Be quiet, great blackguard, or I will take down your conceit.”

“Don’t try it, I have my stingers to defend me.”

And Barnabé showed his fists doubled up for attack. Small, but thickset and muscular in proportion, he squared himself on his short legs before the tall man who stood before him, taken aback by his uncertain movements.

A fight appeared imminent. The deck was nearly deserted, the greater part of the crew busying themselves in arranging their effects in the forecastle. Two men stationed in the bow took no notice, busy as they were in managing the jib, while astern, the sailor at the jigger, while he handled his sheet, looked on and laughed like an amateur of fisticuffs. He seemed truly happy at this unexpected exhibition which was coming off so near him. As to the skipper, not being able to leave the tiller, he swore and threatened; then, despairing of silencing the adversaries, he tried to drown their voices, and shouted his orders at his loudest.

“Ready to come about. Let go the jib-sheet.”

And the boat tacked, drawing away at right angles to avoid a perilous set of the current; but all the same the quarrel continued, more clamorous and more deafening.

“Great child of misery, sailor by sufferance, you gape in the seams. You should be careened and calked.”

“Wretched landlubber, ship’s cook, you should remain in your pantry. The fish which has gone ashore is spoiled for the sea.”

“Speak for yourself, you badly salted codfish.”

“Wretched worm.”

In vain the skipper shouted: “Keep away to starboard.” The men no longer heard him, and the jib, remaining as it was, forced the boat in an exasperating fashion to port. The skipper broke out in fury, stamping excitedly, and leaning forward shouted:

“Enough, Silvere, I cannot steer the boat. We are at the harbor bar.”

His shouts mingled with those of the sailor astern, who was urging Barnabé on.

“Hou! Hou! Little one, take a reef in the big fellow’s sail! He is going to run. Overhaul him amidships.”

Barnabé, as if obeying these suggestions, squared himself like an athlete throwing out his defiance.

“Come alongside a little, old wreck. Look out for the grapnels.”

“I am not afraid of you, you are like a fish, strong in the head only.”

And among these clamors the useless calls of the skipper:

“Quiet there! Thunder! We are sagging off a point. We shall strike. Starboard!”

But his orders did not reach the bow, so thoroughly were they cut off by the torrent of angry words which came clamoring forth like the noise of a tempest. And above all this tumult could be heard the voice of the sailor astern:

“Hou! Hou! Little one, overhaul the big fellow amidships! He is too tall-masted, he will be weak in squalls. Capsize him; turn him keel upward.”

Barnabé advanced with his fists thrust forward. But in an instant Silvere’s great hands came down upon him, sent him rolling over and over even to where the sailor stood, picked him up again like a beaten dog, and, holding him over the boat’s side, shook him above the yawning abyss beneath.

“Let go,” bawled the sailor at the jigger, laughing uproariously; “let go; he is fat enough to float alone.”

Silvere still kept shaking him.

“Barnabé, swear never to do any harm to Elise. Swear, or I will drop you.” And his two hands tightened their grip.

Barnabé uttered a cry like that of a wounded beast--a cry which cut the air with its shrillness. From the forecastle came hurrying all the sailors, snatched from their work by this despairing appeal. Elise was foremost. She took in the situation at a glance; rushing to the guards she caught hold of Barnabé, and with a half turn of her arm threw him on the deck at the skipper’s feet.

But at the same instant without a shock, gently, like a porpoise as he rises, the _Bon-Pêcheur_ lay over on her side.

“Aground! Thunder!” and the skipper’s shout went like a shiver through the crew. The pressure of the wind on the sails pressed the keel still further into the sand. “Let go all!” And in an instant every sail was flapping, and the _Bon-Pêcheur_ lay still, lying well over, a sight at once laughable and pitiable, like a stranded whale.

Then, indeed, there were outbursts of rage on the deck. Silvere and Barnabé were threatened. Elise was accused. It was her fault. Was not the skipper forewarned? Women are always the cause of trouble. And Florimond thought to himself that perhaps the sailors were right.