CHAPTER XII--STRIKING THE ROCK UNKNOWN

The sea, the gray sea once more, where Yann was gently gliding along its broad, trackless road, that leads the fishermen every year to the Land of Ice.

The day before, when they all had set off to the music of the old hymns, there blew a brisk breeze from the south, and all the ships with their outspread sails had dispersed like so many gulls; but that breeze had suddenly subsided, and speed had diminished; great fog-banks covered the watery surface.

Yann was perhaps quieter than usual. He said that the weather was too calm, and appeared to excite himself, as if he would drive away some care that weighed upon him. But he had nothing to do but be carried serenely in the midst of serene things; only to breathe and let himself live. On looking out, only the deep gray ma.s.ses around could be seen; on listening, only silence.

Suddenly there was an almost imperceptible rumbling, which came from below, accompanied by a grinding sensation, as when a brake comes hard down on carriage wheels. The _Marie_ ceased all movement. They had struck. Where, and on what? Some bank off the English coast probably.

For since overnight they had been able to see nothing, with those curtains of mist.

The men ran and rushed about, their bustle contrasting strongly with the sudden rigidity of their ship. How had the _Marie_ come to a stop in that spot? In the midst of that immensity of fluid in this dull weather, seeming to be almost without consistence, she had been seized by some resistless immovable power hidden beneath the waves; she was tight in its grasp, and might perish there.

Who has not seen poor birds caught by their feet in the lime? At first they can scarcely believe they are caught; it changes nothing in their aspect; but they soon are sure that they are held fast, and in danger of never getting free again. And when they struggle to get free, and the sticky stuff soils their wings and heads, they gradually a.s.sume that pitiful look of a dumb creature in distress, about to die. Such was the case with the _Marie_. At first it did not seem much to be concerned about; she certainly was careened a little on one side, but it was broad morning, and the weather was fair and calm; one had to know such things by experience to become uneasy, and understand that it was a serious matter.

The captain was to be pitied. It was his fault, as he had not understood exactly where they were. He wrung his hands, saying: "G.o.d help us! G.o.d help us!" in a voice of despair.

Close to them, during a lifting of the fog, they could distinguish a headland, but not recognize it. But the mists covered it anew, and they saw it no longer.

There was no sail or smoke in sight. They all jostled about, hurrying and knocking the deck lumber over. Their dog Turc, who did not usually mind the movement of the sea, was greatly affected too by this incident, these sounds from down below, these heavy wallowings when the low swell pa.s.sed under, and the sudden calm that afterwards followed; he understood that all this was unusual, and hid himself away in corners, with his tail between his legs. They got out the boats to carry the kedges and set them firm, and tried to row her out of it by uniting all their forces together upon the tow-lines--a heavy piece of work this, which lasted ten successive hours. So, when evening came, the poor bark, which had only that morning been so fresh and light, looked almost swamped, fouled, and good for nothing. She had fought hard, floundered about on all sides, but still remained there, fixed as in a dock.

Night was overtaking them; the wind and the waves were rising; things were growing worse, when, all of a sudden, towards six o'clock, they were let go clear, and could be off again, tearing asunder the tow-lines, which they had left to keep her head steady. The men wept, rushing about like madmen, cheering from stem to stern--"We're afloat, boys!"

They were afloat, with a joy that cannot be described; what it was to feel themselves going forwards on a buoyant craft again, instead of on the semi-wreck it was before, none but a seaman feels, and few of them can tell.

Yann's sadness had disappeared too. Like his ship, he became lively once more, cured by the healthy manual labour; he had found his reckless look again, and had thrown off his glum thoughts.

Next morning, when the kedges were fished up, the _Marie_ went on her way to Iceland, and Yann's heart, to all appearance, was as free as in his early years.

CHAPTER XIII--HOME NEWS

The home letters were being distributed on board the _Circe_, at anchor at Ha-Long, over on the other side of the earth. In the midst of a group of sailors, the purser called out, in a loud voice, the names of the fortunate men who had letters to receive. This went on at evening, on the ship's side, all crushing round a funnel.

"Moan, Sylvestre!" There was one for him, postmarked "Paimpol," but it was not Gaud's writing. What did that mean? from whom did it come else?

After having turned and flourished it about, he opened it fearingly, and read:

"PLOUBAZLANEC, March 5th, 1884.

"MY DEAR GRANDSON:"

So, it was from his dear old granny. He breathed free again. At the bottom of the letter she even had placed her signature, learned by heart, but trembling like a school-girl's scribble: "Widow Moan."

"Widow Moan!" With a quick spontaneous movement he carried the paper to his lips and kissed the poor name, as a sacred relic. For this letter arrived at a critical moment of his life; to-morrow at dawn, he was to set out for the battlefield.

It was in the middle of April; Bac-Ninh and Hong-Hoa had just been taken. There was no great warfare going on in Tonquin, yet the reinforcements arriving were not sufficient; sailors were taken from all the ships to make up the deficit in the corps already disembarked.

Sylvestre, who had languished so long in the midst of cruises and blockades, had just been selected with some others to fill up the vacancies.

It is true that now peace was spoken of, but something told them that they yet would disembarck in good time to fight a bit. They packed their bags, made all their other preparations, and said good-bye, and all the evening through they strolled about with their unfortunate mates who had to remain, feeling much grander and prouder than they. Each in his own way showed his impression at this departure--some were grave and serious, others exuberant and talkative.

Sylvestre was very quiet and thoughtful, though impatient; only, when they looked at him, his smile seemed to say, "Yes, I'm one of the fighting party, and huzza! the action is for to-morrow morning!"

Of gunshots and battle he formed but an incomplete idea as yet; but they fascinated him, for he came of a valiant race.

The strange writing of his letter made him anxious about Gaud, and he drew near a porthole to read the epistle through. It was difficult amid all those half-naked men pressing round, in the unbearable heat of the gundeck.

As he thought she would do, in the beginning of her letter Granny Moan explained why she had had to take recourse to the inexperienced hand of an old neighbour:

"My dear child, I don't ask your cousin to write for me to-day, as she is in great trouble. Her father died suddenly two days ago. It appears that his whole fortune has been lost through unlucky gambling last winter in Paris. So his house and furniture will have to be sold. n.o.body in the place was expecting this. I think, dear child, that this will pain you as much as it does me.

"Gaos, the son, sends you his kind remembrance; he has renewed his articles with Captain Guermeur of the _Marie_, and the departure for Iceland was rather early this year, for they set sail on the first of the month, two days before our poor Gaud's trouble, and he don't know of it yet.

"But you can easily imagine that we shall not get them wed now, for she will be obliged to work for her daily bread."

Sylvestre dwelt stupor-stricken; this bad news quite spoiled his glee at going out to fight.

PART III -- IN THE SHADOW

CHAPTER I--THE SKIRMISH

Hark! a bullet hurtles through the air!

Sylvestre stops short to listen!

He is upon an infinite meadow, green with the soft velvet carpet of spring. The sky is gray, lowering, as if to weigh upon one's very shoulders.

They are six sailors reconnoitring among the fresh rice-fields, in a muddy pathway.

Hist! again the whizz, breaking the silence of the air--a shrill, continuous sound, a kind of prolonged _zing_, giving one a strong impression that the pellets buzzing by might have stung fatally.

For the first time in his life Sylvestre hears that music. The bullets coming towards a man have a different sound from those fired by himself: the far-off report is attenuated, or not heard at all, so it is easier to distinguish the sharp rush of metal as it swiftly pa.s.ses by, almost grazing one's ears.

Crack! whizz! ping! again and yet again! The b.a.l.l.s fall in regular showers now. Close by the sailors they stop short, and are buried in the flooded soil of the rice-fields, accompanied by a faint splash, like hail falling sharp and swift in a puddle of water.

The marines looked at one another as if it was all a piece of odd fun, and said:

"Only John Chinaman! pish!"

To the sailors, Annamites, Tonquinese, or "Black Flags" are all of the same Chinese family. It is difficult to show their contempt and mocking rancour, as well as eagerness for "bowling over the beggars," when they speak of "the Chinese."

Two or three bullets are still flying about, more closely grazing; they can be seen bouncing like gra.s.shoppers in the green. The slight shower of lead did not last long.