Mare Nostrum (Our Sea)

The mate attempted to oppose this generosity by a remnant of the keen interest that the business affairs of the boat had always inspired in him. But his superior officer would not let him continue.

"I am rotten with money, I tell you," he repeated as though uttering a complaint. "I have more than I need…. I can do foolish things with it if I wish to."

Then for the first time he looked his mate square in the face.

"As for you," he continued, "I have thought what you must do…. Here, take this!"

He gave him a sealed envelope and the pilot mechanically tried to open it.

"No, don't open it at present. You will find out what it contains when you are in Spain. Within it is enclosed the future of your own folks."

Toni looked with astonished eyes at the light scrap of paper which he held between his fingers.

"I know you," continued Ferragut. "You are going to protest at the quantity. What to me is insignificant, to you will appear excessive…. Do not open the envelope until you are in our country. In it you will find the name of the bank to which you must go. I wish you to be the richest man in your village that your sons may remember Captain Ferragut when he is dead."

The mate made a gesture of protest before this possible death, and at the same time rubbed his eyes as though he felt in them an intolerable itching.

Ulysses continued his instructions. He had rashly sold the home of his ancestors there in the Marina, the vineyards,—all his legacy from the Triton, when he had acquired the Mare Nostrum. It was his wish that Toni should redeem the property, installing himself in the ancient domicile of the Ferraguts.

He had money to spare for that and much more.

"I have no children and I like to feel that yours are occupying the house that was mine…. Perhaps when I get to be an old man—if they do not kill me, I will come to spend the summers with you. Courage now, Toni!… We shall yet go fishing together, as I used to go fishing with my uncle, the doctor."

But the mate did not regain his spirits on hearing these optimistic affirmations. His eyes were swollen with tears that sparkled in the corners of his eyes. He was swearing between his teeth, protesting against the coming separation…. Never to see him again, after so many years of brotherly companionship!… Cristo!…

The captain was afraid that he, too, might burst into tears and again ordered his mate to present the accounts of the crew.

An hour later Toni reëntered the saloon, carrying in his hand the opened letter. He had not been able to resist the temptation of forcing the secret, fearing that Ferragut's generosity might prove excessive, and impossible to consider. He protested, handing to Ulysses the check taken from the envelope.

"I could not accept it!… It's a crazy idea!…"

He had read with terror the amount made out to him in the letter of credit, first in figures then in long hand. Two hundred and fifty thousand pesetas!… fifty thousand dollars!

"That is not for me," he said again. "I do not deserve it…. What could I ever do with so much money?"

The captain pretended to be irritated by his disobedience.

"You take that paper, you brute!… I was just afraid that you were going to protest…. It's for your children, and so that you can take a rest. Now we won't talk any more about it or I shall get angry."

Then, in order to conquer Toni's scruples, he abandoned his violent tone, and said sadly:

"I have no heirs…. I don't know what to do with my useless fortune."

And he repeated once more like a complaint against destiny: "I am rotten with money!…"

The following morning, while Toni was in his cabin adjusting the accounts of the crew, astonished by the munificence of their paying-off, Uncle Caragol came into the saloon, asking to speak to Ferragut.

He had placed an old cape over his flapping and scanty clothing, more as a decoration for the visit than because the cold of Brittany was really making him suffer.

He removed from his shaved head his everlasting palm-leaf hat, fixing his bloodshot eyes on the captain who continued writing after replying to his greeting.

"What does this mean, this order that I've just received to prepare to leave the boat within a few hours?… It must be some kind of a joke of Toni's; he's an excellent fellow but an enemy to holy things and likes to tease me because of my piety…."

Ferragut laid aside his pen, swinging around toward the cook whose fate had troubled him as much as the first mate's.

"Uncle Caragol, we are growing old and we must think about retiring…. I am going to give you a paper; you will guard it just as though it were a sacred picture, and when you present it in Valencia they will give you ten thousand dollars. Do you know how much ten thousand dollars are?…"

Bringing his mentality down to the level of this simple-minded man, he enjoyed tracing out for him a plan of living. He could invest his capital in whatever modest enterprise in the port of Valencia might appeal to his fancy; he could establish a restaurant which would soon become famous for its Olympian rice dishes. His nephews who were fishermen would receive him like a god. He could also be partner in a couple of barks, dedicated to fishing for the bou. There was awaiting him a happy and honorable old age; his former sailing companions were going to look upon him with envy. He could get up late in the morning; he could go to the cafés; as a rich devotee he could figure in all the religious processions of the Grau and of the Cabanal; he could have a place of honor in the holy processions….

Heretofore, when Ferragut was talking, Uncle Caragol had always mechanically interrupted him, saying: "That is so, my captain." For the first time he was not nodding his head nor smiling with his sun-like face. He was pale and gloomy. He shook his round head energetically and said laconically:

"No, my captain."

Before the glance of astonishment which Ulysses flashed upon him, he found it necessary to explain himself.

"What am I ever going to do ashore?… Who is expecting me there?… Or what business with my family would have any interest for me?…"

Ferragut seemed to be hearing an echo of his own thoughts. He, like the cook, would have nothing to do on land…. He was mortally bored when far from the sea, just as in those months when, still young, he had believed that he could create for himself a new profession in Barcelona. Besides, it was impossible to return to his home, taking up life again with his wife; it would be simply losing his last illusions. It would be better to view from afar all that remained of his former existence.

Caragol, meanwhile, was going on talking. His nephews would not remember the poor old cook and he had no reason to trouble himself about their fate, making them rich. He would prefer to remain just where he was, without money but happy.

"Let the others go!" he said with childish selfishness. "Let Toni go!… I'm going to stay…. I've got to stay. When the captain goes, then Uncle Caragol will go."

Ulysses enumerated the great dangers that the boat was about to face. The German submarines were lying in wait for it with deadly determination; there would be combats … they would be torpedoed….

The old man's smile showed contempt of all such dangers. He was certain that nothing bad could possibly happen to the Mare Nostrum. The furies of the sea were unavailing against it and still less could the wickedness of man injure it.

"I know what I'm talking about, Captain…. I am sure that we shall come out safe and sound from all dangers."

He thought of his miracle-working amulets, of his sacred pictures, of the supernatural protection that his pious prayers were bringing him. Furthermore, he was taking into consideration the Latin name of the ship which had always inspired him with religious respect. It belonged to the language used by the Church, to the idiom which brought about miracles and expelled the devil, making him run away aghast.

"The Mare Nostrum will not suffer any misfortune. If it should change its title … perhaps. But while it is called Mare Nostrum,—how could anything happen to it?…"

Smiling before this faith, Ferragut brought forth his last argument. The entire crew was going to be made up of Frenchmen; how could they ever understand each other if he were ignorant of their language?…

"I know it all," affirmed the old man superbly.

He had made himself understood with men in all the different ports of the world. He was counting on something more than mere language,—on his eyes, his hands, the expressive cunning of an exuberant and gesticulating meridional.

"I am just like San Vicente Ferrer," he added with pride.

His saint had spoken only the Valencian dialect, and yet had traveled throughout half Europe preaching to throngs of different tongues, making them weep with mystic emotion and repent of their sins.

While Ferragut retained the command, he was going to stay. If he didn't want him for a cook, he would be the cabin boy, washing up the pots and pans. The important thing for him was to continue treading the deck of the vessel.

The captain had to give in. This old fellow represented a remnant of his past. He could betake himself from time to time to the galley to talk over the far-away days in which they first met.

And Caragol retired, content with his success.

"As for those Frenchmen," he said before departing, "just leave them to me. They must be good people…. We'll just see what they say about my rice dishes."

In the course of the week the Mare Nostrum was de-organized and re-manned. Its former crew went marching away in groups. Toni was the last to leave, and Ulysses did not wish to see him, fearing to show his emotion. They'd surely write to each other.

A sympathetic curiosity impelled the cook toward the new marine force. He saluted the officers affably, regretting not to know their language sufficiently to begin a friendly conversation with them. The captain had accustomed him to such familiarity.

There were two mates that the mobilization had converted into auxiliary lieutenants of the navy. The first day they presented themselves on board arrayed in their uniform; then they returned in civilian clothes in order to habituate themselves to being simply merchant officers on a neutral steamer. The two knew by hearsay, of Ferragut's former voyages and his services to the Allies, and they understood each other sympathetically without the slightest national prejudice. Caragol achieved equal success with the forty-five men who had taken possession of the machinery and the messrooms in the forecastle. They were dressed like seamen of the fleet, with a broad blue collar and a cap topped by a red pompom. Some displayed on the breast military medals and the recent Croix de Guerre. From their canvas bags which served them for valises, they unpacked their regulation suits, worn when they were working on the freight steamers, on the schooners plying to Newfoundland, or on the simple coasting smacks.

The galley at certain hours was full of men listening to the old cook. Some knew the Spanish tongue on account of having sailed in brigs from Saint-Malo and Saint-Nazaire, going to the ports of the Argentine, Chili and Peru. Those who could not understand the old fellow's words, could guess at them from his gesticulations. They were all laughing, finding him bizarre and interesting. And this general gayety induced Caragol to bring forth liquid treasures that had been piling up in former voyages under Ferragut's careless and generous administration.

The strong alcoholic wine of the coast of the Levant began falling into the glasses like ink crowned with a circle of rubies. The old man poured it forth with a prodigal hand. "Drink away, boys; in your land you don't have anything like this…." At other times he would concoct his famous "refrescoes," smiling with the satisfaction of an artist at seeing the sensuous grin that began flashing across their countenances.

"When did you ever drink anything like that? What would ever become of you all without your Uncle Caragol?…"

These Bretons, accustomed to the discipline and sobriety of other vessels, admired greatly the extraordinary privileges of a cook who could display as much generosity as the captain himself. He frequently communicated to Ferragut his opinion regarding his new comrades. With good reason he had said that they would understand each other!… They were serious and religious men, and he preferred them to the former Mediterranean crews, blasphemers and incapable of resignation, who at the slightest vexation would rip out God's name, trying to affront him with their curses.

They were all muscular and well set-up with blue eyes and blonde mustaches, and were wearing hidden medallions. One of them had presented to the cook one of his religious charms which he had bought on a pilgrimage to Ste. Anne d'Auray. Caragol was wearing it upon his hairy chest, and experiencing a new-born faith in the miracles of this foreign image.

"To her sanctuary, Captain, the pilgrims go in thousands. Every day she performs a miracle…. There's a holy staircase there which the devout climb on their knees and many of these lads have mounted it. I should like …"

On some of their voyages to Brest he was hoping that Ferragut would permit him to go to Auray long enough to climb that same stairway on his knees, to see Ste. Anne and return aboard ship.

The vessel was no longer in a commercial harbor. It had gone to a military harbor,—a narrow river winding through the interior of the city, dividing it in two. A great drawbridge put in communication the two shores bordered with vast constructions and high chimneys, naval shops, warehouses, arsenals, and dry-docks for cleaning up the boats. Tug-boats were continually stirring up its green and miry waters. Steamers undergoing repairs were lined up the length of the break-waters undergoing a continual pounding that made their plates resound. Lighters topped with hills of pit coal were going slowly to take their position along the flanks of the ships. Under the drawbridge launches were coming and going from the warships, leaving on the floating piers the crews celebrating their shore-leave with scandalous uproar.

The Mare Nostrum remained isolated while the workmen from the arsenal were installing on the poop rapid-fire guns and the wireless telegraph apparatus. No one could come aboard that did not belong to the crew.

The sailors' families were waiting for them on the wharf, and Caragol had occasion to become acquainted with many Breton women,—mothers, sisters, or fiancées of his new friends. He liked these women: they were dressed in black with full skirts, and white, stiff caps which brought to his mind the wimples of the nuns…. Some tall, stout girls with blue and candid eyes laughed at the Spaniard without understanding a single word. The old women with faces as dark and wrinkled as winter apples touched glasses with Caragol in the low cafes near the port. They all could do honor to a goblet in an opportune moment, and had great faith in the saints. The cook did not require anything more…. Most excellent and charming people!

Certain lads decorated with the Croix de Guerre used to relate their experiences to him. They were survivors of the battalion of marines who defended Dixmude. After the battle of the Marne they had been sent to intercept the enemy on the side of Flanders. There were not more than six thousand of them and, aided by a Belgian division, they had sustained the onrush of an entire army. Their resistance had lasted for weeks:—a combat of barricades in the street, of struggles the length of the canal with the bloodiness of the ancient piratical forays. The officers had shouted their orders with broken swords and bandaged heads. The men had fought on without thinking of their wounds, covered with blood, until they fell down dead.

Caragol, hitherto little interested in military affairs, became most enthusiastic when relating this heroic struggle to Ferragut, simply because his new friends had taken part in it.

"Many died, Captain…. Almost half of them. But the Germans couldn't make any headway…. Then, on learning that the marines had been no more than six thousand, the generals tore their hair. So great was their wrath! They had supposed that they were confronted by dozens of thousands…. It was just great to hear the lads relate what they did there."

Among these "lads" wounded in the war, who had passed to the naval reserve and were manning the Mare Nostrum, one was especially distinguished by the old man's partiality. He could talk to him in Spanish, because of his transatlantic voyages, and besides he had been born in Vannes.

If the youth ever approached the cook's dominions he was invariably met with a smile of invitation. "A refresco, Vicente?" The best seat was for him. Caragol had forgotten his name as not worth while. Since he came from Vannes, he could not have any other name but Vicente.

The first day that they chatted together, the marine, in love with his country, described to the cook the beauties of Morbihan,—a great interior sea surrounded with groves and with islands covered with pines. Among the venerable antiquities of the city was the Gothic cathedral with its many tombs, among them that of a Spanish saint,—St. Vicente Ferrer.

This gave a tug at Caragol's heart-strings. He had never before bothered to find out where the famous apostle of Valencia was entombed…. He recalled suddenly a strophe of the songs of praise that the devotees of his land used to sing before the altars of this saint. Sure enough he had gone to die in "Vannes, in Brittainy,"—a mere geographical name which until then had lacked any significance for him…. And so this lad was from Vannes? Nothing more was needed to make Caragol regard him with the respect due to one born in a miraculous country.

He made him describe many times the tomb of the saint, the only one in the transept of the cathedral, the moth-eaten tapestries that perpetuated his miracles, the silver bust which guarded his heart…. Furthermore, the principal portal of Vannes was called the gate of St. Vicente and recollections of the saint were still alive in their chronicles.

Caragol proposed to visit this city also when the ship should return to Brest. Brittainy must be very holy ground, the holiest in the world, since the miracle-working Valencian, after traversing so many nations, had wished to die there.

It, therefore, did not produce the slightest astonishment that this slip of a boy who had been picked up at Dixmude covered with wounds, was now showing himself sane and vigorous…. On board the Mare Nostrum he was the head gunner. He and two comrades had charge of the quickfirers. For Caragol there was not the slightest doubt as to the fate of every submarine that should venture to attack them; the "lad from Vannes" would send them to smithereens at the first shot. A picture post-card, a gift of the lad from Brittany, showing the tomb of the saint, occupied the position of honor in the galley. The old man used to pray before it as though it were a miracle-working print, and the Cristo del Grao was relegated to second place.

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 shore market. While passing 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 snatched 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 passed 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 anchored 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 passional errors.

He wished to watch her for himself, and in the evening he went ashore. 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 cafés 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 passing 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 passage between the reefs that obstruct this port. They passed 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 entitled to call himself "Captain of Sea and War" like the ancient navigators. If a submarine should pass 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.