Mare Nostrum (Our Sea) Part 57

One morning Caragol went in search of the captain and found him writing in his stateroom. He had just come from making purchases in the sh.o.r.e market. While pa.s.sing through the _rue de Siam_, the most important road in Brest, where the theaters are, the moving-picture shows, and the cafes, he had had an encounter. "An unexpected meeting," he continued with a mysterious smile. "Who do you suppose it was with?..."

Ferragut shrugged his shoulders. And, noting his indifference, the old man could not keep the secret any longer.

"The lady-bird!" he added. "That handsome, perfumed lady-bird that used to come to see you.... The one from Naples.... The one from Barcelona...." The captain turned pale, first with surprise and then with anger. Freya in Brest!... Her spy work was reaching even here?...

Caragol went on with his story. He was returning to the ship, and she, who was walking through the _rue de Siam,_ had recognized him, speaking to him affectionately.

"She asked to be remembered to you.... She has been informed that no foreigner can come aboard. She told me that she had tried to come to see you."

The cook began a search through his pockets, extricating a bit of wrinkled paper, a white sheet s.n.a.t.c.hed from an old letter.

"She also gave me this paper, written right there in the street with a lead pencil. You will know what it says. I did not wish to look at it."

Ferragut, on taking the paper, recognized immediately her handwriting, although uneven, nervous and scribbled with great precipitation. Six words, no more:--"Farewell, I am going to die."

"Lies! Always lies!" said the voice of prudence in his brain.

He tore up the paper and pa.s.sed the rest of the morning very much preoccupied.... It was his duty to defend himself against this espionage that had even established its base in a port of war.... Every boat anch.o.r.ed near the _Mare Nostrum_ was menaced by Freya's power to give information. Who knew but what her mysterious communications would bring about their attack by a submarine on going out from the roadstead of Brest!...

His first impulse was to denounce her. Then he repented because of his absurd scruples of chivalry.... Besides, he would have to explain his past to the head officers at Brest who knew him very slightly. He was far from that naval captain at Salonica who had so well understood his pa.s.sional errors.

He wished to watch her for himself, and in the evening he went ash.o.r.e.

He detested Brest as one of the dullest cities of the Atlantic. It was always raining there, and there was no diversion except the eternal promenade through the _rue de Siam_, or a bored stay in the cafes full of seamen and English and Portuguese land-officers.

He went through the public establishments night and day; he made investigations in the hotels; he hired carriages in order to visit the more picturesque suburbs. For four days he persisted in his inquiries without any result.

He began to doubt Uncle Caragol's veracity. Perhaps he had been drunk on returning to the ship, and had made up such an encounter. But the recollection of that paper written by her discounted such a supposition.... Freya was in Brest.

The cook explained it all simply enough when the captain besieged him with fresh questions.

"The lady-bird must just be pa.s.sing through. Perhaps she flitted away that same evening.... That meeting was just a chance encounter."

Ferragut had to give up his investigations. The defensive work on the ship was about terminated and the holds contained their cargo of projectiles for the army of the Orient and various unmounted guns. He received his sailing orders, and one gray and rainy morning they lifted anchor and steamed out of the bay of Brest. The fog made even more difficult the pa.s.sage between the reefs that obstruct this port. They pa.s.sed before the lugubrious Bay of the Dead, ancient cemetery of sailboats, and continued their navigation toward the south in search of the strait in order to enter the Mediterranean.

Ferragut felt increased pride in examining the new aspect of the _Mare Nostrum_. The wireless telegraph was going to keep him in contact with the world. He was no longer a merchant captain, slave of destiny, trusting to good luck, and incapable of repelling an attack. The radiographic stations were watching for him the entire length of the coast, advising him of changes in his course that he might avoid the ambushed enemy. The apparatus was constantly hissing and sustaining invisible dialogues. Besides, mounted on the stern was a cannon covered with a canvas hood, ready to begin work.

The dreams of his childhood when he used to devour stories of corsairs and novels of maritime adventures seemed about to be realized. He was now ent.i.tled to call himself "Captain of Sea and War" like the ancient navigators. If a submarine should pa.s.s before him, he would attack it from the prow; if it should try to pursue him, he would respond with the cannon.

His adventurous humor actually made him anxious for one of these encounters. A maritime combat had not yet occurred in his life, and he wished to see how these modest and silent men who had made war on land and contemplated death at close range, would demean themselves.

It was not long before his desire was realized. One morning on the high seas near Lisbon, when he had just fallen asleep after a night on the bridge, the shouts and runnings of the crew awakened him.

A submarine had broken the surface about fifteen hundred yards astern and was coming toward the _Mare Nostrum_, evidently fearing that the merchant-boat would try to escape; but in order to oblige it to stop, its gun fired two sh.e.l.ls which fell into the water.

The steamer moderated its pace but only to place itself in a more favorable position and to maneuver with more sea room, with its arms at the stern. At the first shot the submarine began to recede, keeping a more prudent distance, surprised to receive an answer to its aggression.

The combat lasted half an hour. The shots repeated themselves on both sides with the speed of rapid fire artillery. Ferragut was near the gun, admiring the calm coolness with which its servants manipulated it.

One always had a projectile in his arms ready to give it to his companion who rapidly introduced it into the smoking chamber. The gunner was concentrating all his life in his eyes, and bending over the cannon, moved it carefully, seeking the sensitive part of that gray and prolonged body that was rising to the surface of the water as though it were a whale.

Suddenly a cloud of kindling wood flew near the steamer's prow. An enemy's projectile had just hit the edge of the roofs that covered the galley and mess rooms. Caragol, who was standing in the door of his dominions, raised his hands to his hat. When the yellowish and evil-smelling cloud dissolved, they saw him still standing there, scratching the top of his head, bare and red.

"It's nothing!" he cried. "Just a bit of wood that drew a little of my blood. Fire away!... Fire!"

He was yelling directions, inflamed by the shooting. The drug-like smell of the smokeless powder, the dull thud of the detonations appeared to intoxicate him. He was leaping and wringing his hands with the ardor of a war-dancer.

The gunners redoubled their activity; the shots became continuous.

"There it is!" yelled Caragol. "They have hit it.... They have hit it!"

Of all those aboard, he was the one who could least appreciate the effects of the shots for he could scarcely discern the silhouette of the submersible. But in spite of that he continued bellowing with all the force of his faith.

"Now you've hit it!... Hurrah! Hurrah!"

And the strange thing was that the enemy instantly disappeared from the blue surface. The gunners still sent some shots against their periscope. Then there was left in the place which they had occupied only a white and glistening expanse.

The steamer went toward this enormous spot of oil whose undulations were twinkling with sunflower-like reflections.

The marines uttered shouts of enthusiasm. They were sure of having sent the submersible to the bottom. The officers were less optimistic. They had never seen one raise itself up vertically, tilting its stern high in the air before sinking. Perhaps it simply had been damaged and obliged to hide.

The loss of the submarine was a sure thing in Caragol's estimation, and he considered it entirely unnecessary to ask the name of the one who had blown it to smithereens.

"It must have been that lad from Vannes.... He's the only one who could have done it."

For him the other gunners simply did not exist. And, inflamed by his enthusiasm, he wriggled out of the hands of the two seamen who had begun to bandage his head with a deftness learned in land combats.

Ferragut was entirely satisfied with this encounter. Although he could not be absolutely certain of the destruction of the enemy, the fact that his boat had saved itself would spread abroad the fact that the _Mare Nostrum_ was entirely capable of self-defense.

His joy took him to Caragol's domains.

"Well done, old man! We're going to write to the Ministry of Marine to give you the _Croix de Guerre_."

The cook, taking his words in all seriousness, declined the honor. If such recompense were to be given to any one, let it be handed to "that lad from Vannes." Then he added as though reflecting the captain's thoughts:

"I like to sail in this fashion.... Our steamer has gotten its teeth, and now it will not have to run like a frightened rabbit.... They'll have to let it go on its way in peace because now it can bite."

The rest of the journey toward Salonica was without incident.

Telegraphy kept it in contact with the instructions arriving from the sh.o.r.e. Gibraltar advised it to sail close to the African coast; Malta and Bizerta pointed out that it could continue forward since the pa.s.sage between Tunis and Sicily was clear of enemies. From distant Egypt tranquillizing messages came to meet them while they were sailing among the Grecian Islands with the prow toward Salonica.

On their return, they were to take freight to the harbor of Ma.r.s.eilles.

Ferragut did not have to bother about the boat while it was at anchor.

The French officials were the ones who made arrangements with the harbor authorities. He merely had to be the justification for the flag, a captain of a neutral country, whose presence certified to the nationality of the vessel. Only on the sea did he recover command, every one becoming obedient to those on the bridge.

He wandered through Ma.r.s.eilles as at other times, pa.s.sing the first hours of the evening on the terraces of the _Cannebiere_.

An old Ma.r.s.eillaise, captain of a merchant steamer, used to chat with him before returning to his office. One afternoon, while Ferragut was absent-mindedly glancing at a certain Paris daily that his friend was carrying, his attention was suddenly attracted by a name printed at the head of a short article. Surprise made him turn pale while at the same time something contracted within his breast. Again he spelled out the name, fearing that he had been under an hallucination. Doubt was impossible: it was very clear,--_Freya Talberg_. He took the paper from his comrade's hand, disguising his impatience by an a.s.sumption of curiosity.

"What is the war news to-day?..."

And while the old sailor was giving him the news, he read feverishly the few lines grouped beneath that name.