[35]The sheet-lightnings which play during the nights of July and August are termed in creoleZéclai-tiriri, or "titiri-lightnings";—it is believed these give notice that the titiri have begun to swarm in the rivers. Among the colored population there exists an idea of some queer relation between the lightning and the birth of the little fish;—it is commonly said, "Zéclai-à ka fai yo écloré" (the lightning hatches them).
[35]The sheet-lightnings which play during the nights of July and August are termed in creoleZéclai-tiriri, or "titiri-lightnings";—it is believed these give notice that the titiri have begun to swarm in the rivers. Among the colored population there exists an idea of some queer relation between the lightning and the birth of the little fish;—it is commonly said, "Zéclai-à ka fai yo écloré" (the lightning hatches them).
... We enter the upper belt of woods—green twilight again. There are as many lianas as ever: but they are less massive in stem;—the trees, which are stunted, stand closer together; and the web-work of roots is finer and more thickly spun. These are called thepetits-bois(little woods), in contradistinction to the grands-bois, or high woods. Multitudes of balisiers, dwarf-palms, arborescent ferns, wild guavas, mingle with the lower growths on either side of the path, which has narrowed to the breadth of a wheel-rut, and is nearly concealed by protruding grasses and fern leaves. Never does the sole of the foot press upon a surface large as itself,—always the slippery backs of roots crossing at all angles, like loop-traps, over sharp fragments of volcanic rock or pumice-stone. There are abrupt descents, sudden acclivities, mud-holes, and fissures;—one grasps at the ferns on both sides to keep from falling; and some ferns are spiked sometimes on the under surface, and tear the hands. But the barefooted guides stride on rapidly, erect as ever under their loads,—chopping off with their cutlasses any branches that hang low. There are beautiful flowers here,—various unfamiliar species of lobelia;—pretty red and yellow blossoms belonging to plants which the creole physician callsBromeliaceœ; and a plant like theGuy Lussaciaof Brazil, with violet-red petals. There is an indescribable multitude of ferns,—a very museum of ferns! The doctor, who is a great woodsman, says that he never makes a trip to the hills without finding some new kind of fern; and he had already a collection of several hundred.
The route is continually growing steeper, and makes a number of turns and windings: we reach another bit of savane, where we have to walk over black-pointed stones that resemble slag;—then more petits-bois, still more dwarfed, then another opening. The naked crest of the volcano appears like a peaked precipice, dark-red, with streaks of green, over a narrow but terrific chasm on the left: we are almost on a level with the crater, but must make a long circuit to reach it, through a wilderness of stunted timber and bush. The creoles call this undergrowthrazié: it is really only a prolongation of the low jungle which carpets the high forests below, with this difference, that there are fewer creepers and much more fern.... Suddenly we reach a black gap in the path about thirty inches wide—half hidden by the tangle of leaves,—La Fente.It is a volcanic fissure which divides the whole ridge, and is said to have no bottom: for fear of a possible slip, the guides insist upon holding our hands while we cross it. Happily there are no more such clefts; but there are mud-holes, snags, roots, and loose rocks beyond counting. Least disagreeable are theboubiers, in which you sink to your knees in black or gray slime. Then the path descends into open light again;—and we find ourselves at the Étang,—in the dead Crater of the Three Palmistes.
An immense pool, completely encircled by high green walls of rock, which shut out all further view, and shoot up, here and there, into cones, or rise into queer lofty humps and knobs. One of these elevations at the opposite side has almost the shape of a blunt horn: it is the Morne de la Croix. The scenery is at once imposing and sinister: the shapes towering above the lake and reflected in its still surface have the weirdness of things seen in photographs of the moon. Clouds are circling above them and between them;—one descends to the water, haunts us a moment, blurring everything; then rises again. We have travelled too slow; the clouds have had time to gather.
I look in vain for the Three Palmistes which gave the crater a name: they were destroyed long ago. But there are numbers of young ones scattered through the dense ferny covering of the lake-slopes,—just showing their heads like bunches of great dark-green feathers.
—The estimate of Dr. Rufz, made in 1851, and the estimate of the last "Annuaire" regarding the circumference of the lake, are evidently both at fault. That of the "Annuaire," 150 metres, is a gross error: the writer must have meant the diameter,—following Rufz, who estimated the circumference at something over 300 paces. As we find it, the Étang, which is nearly circular, must measure 200 yards across;—perhaps it has been greatly swollen by the extraordinary rains of this summer. Our guides say that the little iron cross projecting from the water about two yards off was high and dry on the shore last season. At present there is only one narrow patch of grassy bank on which we can rest, between the water and the walls of the crater.
The lake is perfectly clear, with a bottom of yellowish shallow mud, which rests—according to investigations made in 1851—upon a mass of pumice-stone mixed in places with ferruginous sand; and the yellow mud itself is a detritus of pumice-stone. We strip for a swim.
Though at an elevation of nearly 5000 feet, this water is not so cold as that of the Roxelane, nor of other rivers of the north-west and north-east coasts. It has an agreeable fresh taste, like dew. Looking down into it, I see many lame of the maringouin, or large mosquito: no fish. The maringouins themselves are troublesome,—whirring around us and stinging. On striking out for the middle, one is surprised to feel the water growing slightly warmer. The committee of investigation in 1851 found the temperature of the lake, in spite of a north wind, 20.5 Centigrade, while that of the air was but 19 (about 69 F. for the water, and 66.2 for the air). The depth in the centre is over six feet; the average is scarcely four.
Regaining the bank, we prepare to ascend the Morne de la Croix. The circular path by which it is commonly reached is now under water; and we have to wade up to our waists. All the while clouds keep passing over us in great slow whirls. Some are white and half-transparent; others opaque and dark gray;—a dark cloud passing through a white one looks like a goblin. Gaining the opposite shore, we find a very rough path over splintered stone, ascending between the thickest fern-growths possible to imagine. The general tone of this fern is dark green; but there are paler cloudings of yellow and pink,—due to the varying age of the leaves, which are pressed into a cushion three or four feet high, and almost solid enough to sit upon. About two hundred and fifty yards from the crater edge, the path rises above this tangle, and zigzags up the morne, which now appears twice as lofty as from the lake, where we had a curiously foreshortened view of it. It then looked scarcely a hundred feet high; it is more than double that. The cone is green to the top with moss, low grasses, small fern, and creeping pretty plants, like violets, with big carmine flowers. The path is a black line: the rock laid bare by it looks as if burned to the core. We have now to use our hands in climbing; but the low thick ferns give a good hold. Out of breath, and drenched in perspiration, we reach the apex,—the highest point of the island. But we are curtained about with clouds,—moving in dense white and gray masses: we cannot see fifty feet away.
The top of the peak has a slightly slanting surface of perhaps twenty square yards, very irregular in outline;—southwardly the morne pitches sheer into a frightful chasm, between the converging of two of those long corrugated ridges already described as buttressing the volcano on all sides. Through a cloud-rift we can see another crater-lake twelve hundred feet below—said to be five times larger than the Étang we have just left: it is also of more irregular outline. This is called theÉtang Sec, or "Dry Pool," because dry in less rainy seasons. It occupies a more ancient crater, and is very rarely visited: the path leading to it is difficult and dangerous,—a natural ladder of roots and lianas over a series of precipices. Behind us the Crater of the Three Palmistes now looks no larger than the surface on which we stand;—over its further boundary we can see the wall of another gorge, in which there is a third crater-lake. West and north are green peakings, ridges, and high lava walls steep as fortifications. All this we can only note in the intervals between passing of clouds. As yet there is no landscape visible southward;—we sit down and wait.
... Two crosses are planted nearly at the verge of the precipice; a small one of iron; and a large one of wood—probably the same put up by the Abbé Lespinasse during the panic of 1851, after the eruption. This has been splintered to pieces by a flash of lightning; and the fragments are clumsily united with cord. There is also a little tin plate let into a slit in a black post: it bears a date,—8 Avril, 1867.... The volcanic vents, which were active in 1851, are not visible from the peak: they are in the gorge descending from it, at a point nearly on a level with the Étang Sec.
The ground gives out a peculiar hollow sound when tapped, and is covered with a singular lichen,—all composed of round overlapping leaves about one-eighth of an inch in diameter, pale green, and tough as fish-scales. Here and there one sees a beautiful branching growth, like a mass of green coral: it is a gigantic moss.Cabane-Jésus("bed-of-Jesus") the patois name is: at Christmas-time, in all the churches, those decorated cribs in which the image of the Child-Saviour is laid are filled with it. The creeping crimson violet is also here. Fire-flies with bronze-green bodies are crawling about;—I notice also small frogs, large gray crickets, and a species of snail with a black shell. A solitary humming-bird passes, with a beautiful blue head, flaming like sapphire.
All at once the peak vibrates to a tremendous sound from somewhere below.... It is only a peal of thunder; but it startled at first, because the mountain rumbles and grumbles occasionally.... From the wilderness of ferns about the lake a sweet long low whistle comes—three times;—asiffleur-de-montagnehas its nest there.
There is a rain-storm over the woods beneath us: clouds now hide everything but the point on which we rest; the crater of the Palmistes becomes invisible. But it is only for a little while that we are thus befogged: a wind conies, blows the clouds over us, lifts them up and folds them like a drapery, and slowly whirls them away northward. And for the first time the view is clear over the intervening gorge,—now spanned by the rocket-leap of a perfect rainbow.
... Valleys and mornes, peaks and ravines,—succeeding each other swiftly as surge succeeds surge in a storm,—a weirdly tossed world, but beautiful as it is weird: all green the foreground, with all tints of green, shadowing off to billowy distances of purest blue. The sea-line remains invisible as ever: you know where it is only by the zone of pale light ringing the double sphericity of sky and ocean. And in this double blue void the island seems to hang suspended: far peaks seem to come up from nowhere, to rest on nothing—like forms of mirage. Useless to attempt photography;—distances take the same color as the sea. Vauclin's truncated mass is recognizable only by the shape of its indigo shadows. All is vague, vertiginous;—the land still seems to quiver with the prodigious forces that upheaved it.
High over all this billowing and peaking tower the Pitons of Carbet, gem-violet through the vapored miles,—the tallest one filleted with a single soft white band of cloud. Through all the wonderful chain of the Antilles you might seek in vain for other peaks exquisite of form as these. Their beauty no less surprises the traveller to-day than it did Columbus three hundred and eighty-six years ago, when—on the thirteenth day of June, 1502—his caravel first sailed into sight of them, and he asked his Indian guide the name of the unknown land, and the names of those marvellous shapes. Then, according to Pedro Martyr de Anghiera, the Indian answered that the name of the island was Madiana; that those peaks had been venerated from immemorial time by the ancient peoples of the archipelago as the birthplace of the human race; and that the first brown habitants of Madiana, having been driven from their natural heritage by the man-eating pirates of the south—the cannibal Caribs,—remembered and mourned for their sacred mountains, and gave the names of them, for a memory, to the loftiest summits of their new home,—Hayti.... Surely never was fairer spot hallowed by the legend of man's nursing-place than the valley blue-shadowed by those peaks,—worthy, for their gracious femininity of shape, to seem the visible breasts of the All-nourishing Mother,—dreaming under this tropic sun.
Touching the zone of pale light north-east, appears a beautiful peaked silhouette,—Dominica. We had hoped to perceive Saint Lucia; but the atmosphere is too heavily charged with vapor to-day. How magnificent must be the view on certain extraordinary days, when it reaches from Antigua to the Grenadines—over a range of three hundred miles! But the atmospheric conditions which allow of such a spectacle are rare indeed. As a general rule, even in the most unclouded West Indian weather, the loftiest peaks fade into the light at a distance of one hundred miles.
A sharp ridge covered with fern cuts off the view of the northern slopes: one must climb it to look down upon Macouba. Macouba occupies the steepest slope of Pelée, and the grimmest part of the coast: its littlechef-lieuis industrially famous for the manufacture of native tobacco, and historically for the ministrations of Père Labat, who rebuilt its church. Little change has taken place in the parish since his time. "Do you know Macouba?" asks a native writer;—"it is not Pelion upon Ossa, but ten or twelve Pelions side by side with ten or twelve Ossæ, interseparated by prodigious ravines. Men can speak to each other from places whence, by rapid walking, it would require hours to meet;—to travel there is to experience on dry land the sensation of the sea."
With the diminution of the warmth provoked by the exertion of climbing, you begin to notice how cool it feels;—you could almost doubt the testimony of your latitude. Directly east is Senegambia: we are well south of Timbuctoo and the Sahara,—on a line with southern India. The ocean has cooled the winds; at this altitude the rarity of the air is northern; but in the valleys below the vegetation is African. The best alimentary plants, the best forage, the flowers of the gardens, are of Guinea;—the graceful date-palms are from the Atlas region: those tamarinds, whose thick shade stifles all other vegetal life beneath it, are from Senegal. Only, in the touch of the air, the vapory colors of distance, the shapes of the hills, there is a something not of Africa: that strange fascination which has given to the island its poetic creole name,—le Pays des Revenants.And the charm is as puissant in our own day as it was more than two hundred years ago, when Père Du Tertre wrote:—"I have never met one single man, nor one single woman, of all those who came back therefrom, in whom I have not remarked a most passionate desire to return thereunto."
Time and familiarity do not weaken the charm, either for those born among these scenes who never voyaged beyond their native island, or for those to whom the streets of Paris and the streets of St. Pierre are equally well known. Even at a time when Martinique had been forsaken by hundreds of her ruined planters, and the paradise-life of the old days had become only a memory to embitter exile,—a Creole writes:—
—"Let there suddenly open before you one of those vistas, or anses, with colonnades of cocoa-palm—at the end of which you see smoking the chimney of a sugar-mill, and catch a glimpse of the hamlet of negro cabins (cases);—or merely picture to yourself one of the most ordinary, most trivial scenes: nets being hauled by two ranks of fishermen; a canot waiting for the embellie to make a dash for the beach; even a negro bending under the weight of a basket of fruits, and running along the shore to get to market;—and illuminate that with the light of our sun! What landscapes!—O Salvator Rosa! O Claude Lorrain,—if I had your pencil!... Well do I remember the day on which, after twenty years of absence, I found myself again in presence of these wonders;—I feel once more the thrill of delight that made all my body tremble, the tears that came to my eyes. It was my land, my own land, that appeared so beautiful."...[36]
[36]Dr. E. Rufz: "Études historiques," vol. I, p. 180.
[36]Dr. E. Rufz: "Études historiques," vol. I, p. 180.
At the beginning, while gazing south, east, west, to the rim of the world, all laughed, shouted, interchanged the quick delight of new impressions: every face was radiant.... Now all look serious;—none speak. The first physical joy of finding oneself on this point in violet air, exalted above the hills, soon yields to other emotions inspired by the mighty vision and the colossal peace of the heights. Dominating all, I think, is the consciousness of the awful antiquity of what one is looking upon,—such a sensation, perhaps, as of old found utterance in that tremendous question of the Book of Job:—"Wast thou brought forth before the hills?"
RUINS, ST. PIERREDecked out with flowers grayed by the passing years, these crumbling walls look immeasurably old.
RUINS, ST. PIERREDecked out with flowers grayed by the passing years, these crumbling walls look immeasurably old.
... And the blue multitude of the peaks, the perpetual congregation of the mornes, seem to chorus in the vast resplendence,—telling of Nature's eternal youth, and the passionless permanence of that about us and beyond us and beneath,—until something like the fulness of a great grief begins to weigh at the heart.... For all this astonishment of beauty, all this majesty of light and form and color, will surely endure,—marvellous as now,—after we shall have lain down to sleep where no dreams come, and may never arise from the dust of our rest to look upon it.
One might almost say that commercial time in St. Pierre is measured by cannon-shots,—by the signal-guns of steamers. Every such report announces an event of extreme importance to the whole population. To the merchant it is a notification that mails, money, and goods have arrived;—to consuls and Government officials it gives notice of fees and dues to be collected;—for the host of lightermen, longshoremen, port laborers of all classes, it promises work and pay;—for all it signifies the arrival of food. The island does not feed itself: cattle, salt meats, hams, lard, flour, cheese, dried fish, all come from abroad,—particularly from America. And in the minds of the colored population the American steamer is so intimately associated with the idea of those great tin cans in which food-stuffs are brought from the United States, that the onomatope applied to the can, because of the sound outgiven by it when tapped,—bom!—is also applied to the ship itself. The English or French or Belgian steamer, however large, is only known aspackett-à, batiment-là; but the American steamer is always the "bom-ship"—batiment-bom-à; or, the "food-ship"—batiment-mangé-à.... You hear women and men asking each other, as the shock of the gun flaps through all the town, "Mil godé ça qui là, chè?" And if the answer be, "Mais c'est bom-là, chè,—bom-mangé-à ka rivé" (Why, it is the bom, dear,—the food-bom that has come), great is the exultation.
Again, because of the sound of her whistle, we find a steamer called in this same picturesque idiom,batiment-cône,—"the horn-ship." There is even a song, of which the refrain is:—
"Bom-là rivé, chè,—Batiment-cône-là rivé."
... But of all the various classes of citizens, those most joyously excited by the coming of a great steamer, whether she be a "bom" or not,—are the 'ti canotié, who swarm out immediately in little canoes of their own manufacture to dive for coins which passengers gladly throw into the water for the pleasure of witnessing the graceful spectacle. No sooner does a steamer drop anchor—unless the water be very rough indeed—than she is surrounded by a fleet of the funniest little boats imaginable, full of naked urchins screaming creole.
These'ti canotié—these little canoe-boys and professional divers—are, for the most part, sons of boatmen of color, the real canotiers. I cannot find who first invented the 'ti canot: the shape and dimensions of the little canoe are fixed according to a tradition several generations old; and no improvements upon the original model seem to have ever been attempted, with the sole exception of a tiny water-tight box contrived sometimes at one end, in which thepalettes, or miniature paddles, and various other trifles may be stowed away. The actual cost of material for a canoe of this kind seldom exceeds twenty-five or thirty cents; and, nevertheless, the number of canoes is not very large—I doubt if there be more than fifteen in the harbor;—as the families of Martinique boatmen are all so poor that twenty-five sous are difficult to spare, in spite of the certainty that the little son can earn fifty times the amount within a month after owning a canoe.
For the manufacture of a canoe an American lard-box or kerosene-oil box is preferred by reason of its shape; but any well-constructed shipping-case of small size would serve the purpose. The top is removed; the sides and the corners of the bottom are sawn out at certain angles; and the pieces removed are utilized for the sides of the bow and stern,—sometimes also in making the little box for the paddles, or palettes, which are simply thin pieces of tough wood about the form and size of a cigar-box lid. Then the little boat is tarred and varnished: it cannot sink,—though it is quite easily upset. There are no seats. The boys (there are usually two to each canot) simply squat down in the bottom,—facing each other. They can paddle with surprising swiftness over a smooth sea; and it is a very pretty sight to witness one of their prize contests in racing,—which take place every 14th of July....
... It was five o'clock in the afternoon: the horizon beyond the harbor was turning lemon-color;—and a thin warm wind began to come in weak puffs from the south-west,—the first breaths to break the immobility of the tropical air. Sails of vessels becalmed at the entrance of the bay commenced to flap lazily: they might belly after sundown.
TheLa Guayrawas in port, lying well out: her mountainous iron mass rising high above the modest sailing craft moored in her vicinity,—barks and brigantines and brigs and schooners and barkentines. She had lain before the town the whole afternoon, surrounded by the entire squadron of canots; and the boys were still circling about her flanks, although she had got up steam and was lifting her anchor. They had been very lucky, indeed, that afternoon,—all the little canotiers;—and even many yellow lads, not fortunate enough to own canoes, had swum out to her in hope of sharing the silver shower falling from her saloon-deck. Some of these, tired out, were resting themselves by sitting on the slanting cables of neighboring ships. Perched naked thus,—balancing in the sun, against the blue of sky or water, their slender bodies took such orange from the mellowing light as to seem made of some self-luminous substance,—flesh of sea-fairies....
Suddenly theLa Guayraopened her steam-throat and uttered such a moo that all the mornes cried out for at least a minute after;—and the little fellows perched on the cables of the sailing craft tumbled into the sea at the sound and struck out for shore. Then the water all at once burst backward in immense frothing swirls from beneath the stem of the steamer; and there arose such a heaving as made all the little canoes dance. TheLa Guayrawas moving. She moved slowly at first, making a great fuss as she turned round: then she began to settle down to her journey very majestically,—just making the water pitch a little behind her, as the hem of a woman's robe tosses lightly at her heels while she walks.
And, contrary to custom, some of the canoes followed after her. A dark handsome man, wearing an immense Panama hat, and jewelled rings upon his hands, was still throwing money; and still the boys dived for it. But only one of each crew now plunged; for, though theLa Guayrawas yet moving slowly, it was a severe strain to follow her, and there was no time to be lost.
The captain of the little band—black Maximilien, ten years old, and his comrade Stéphane—nicknamedTi Chabin, because of his bright hair,—a slim little yellow boy of eleven—led the pursuit, crying always, "Encò, Missié,—encò!"...
TheLa Guayrahad gained fully two hundred yards when the handsome passenger made his final largess,—proving himself quite an expert in flinging coin. The piece fell far short of the boys, but near enough to distinctly betray a yellow shimmer as it twirled to the water. That was gold!
In another minute the leading canoe had reached the spot, the other canotiers voluntarily abandoning the quest,—for it was little use to contend against Maximilien and Stéphane, who had won all the canoe contests last 14th of July. Stéphane, who was the better diver, plunged.
He was much longer below than usual, came up at quite a distance, panted as he regained the canoe, and rested his arms upon it. The water was so deep there, he could not reach the coin the first time, though he could see it: he was going to try again,—it was gold, sure enough.
—"Fouinq! ça fond içitt!" he gasped.
Maximilien felt all at once uneasy. Very deep water, and perhaps sharks. And sunset not far off! TheLa Guayrawas diminishing in the offing.
—"Boug-là 'lé fai nou néyé!—laissé y, Stéphane!" he cried. (The fellow wants to drown us.Laissé—leave it alone.)
But Stéphane had recovered breath, and was evidently resolved to try again. It was gold!
—"Mais ça c'est lò!"
—"Assez, non!" screamed Maximilien. "Pa plongé ncò, moin ka di ou! Ah! foute!"...
Stéphane had dived again!
... And where were the others? "Bon-Dié, gadé oti yo yé!" They were almost out of sight,—tiny specks moving shoreward.... TheLa Guayranow seemed no bigger than the little packet running between St. Pierre and Fort-de-France.
Up came Stéphane again, at a still greater distance than before,—holding high the yellow coin in one hand. He made for the canoe, and Maximilien paddled towards him and helped him in. Blood was streaming from the little diver's nostrils, and blood colored the water he spat from his mouth.
—"Ah! moin té ka di ou laissé y!" cried Maximilien, in anger and alarm.... "Gàdé, godé sang-à ka coulé nans nez ou,—nans bouche ou!... Mi oti lézautt!"
Lézautt, the rest, were no longer visible.
—"Et mi oti nou yé!" cried Maximilien again. They had never ventured so far from shore.
But Stéphane answered only, "C'est lò!" For the first time in his life he held a piece of gold in his fingers. He tied it up in a little rag attached to the string fastened about his waist,—a purse of his own invention,—and took up his paddles, coughing the while and spitting crimson.
—"Mi! mi!—mi oti nou yé!" reiterated Maximilien. "Bon-Dié!look where we are!"
The Place had become indistinct;—the light-house, directly behind half an hour earlier, now lay well south: the red light had just been kindled. Seaward, in advance of the sinking orange disk of the sun, was theLa Guayra, passing to the horizon. There was no sound from the shore: about them a great silence had gathered,—the Silence of seas, which is a fear. Panic seized them: they began to paddle furiously.
But St. Pierre did not appear to draw any nearer. Was it only an effect of the dying light, or were they actually moving towards the semicircular cliffs of Fond-Corré?... Maximilien began to cry. The little chabin paddled on,—though the blood was still trickling over his breast.
Maximilien screamed out to him:—
—"Ou pa ka pagayé,—anh?—ou ni bousoin demi??" (Thou dost not paddle, eh?—thou wouldst go to sleep?)
—"Si! moin ka pagayé,—epi fò!" (I am paddling, and hard, too!) responded Stéphane....
—"Ou ka pagayé!—ou ka menti!" (Thou art paddling!—thou liest!) vociferated Maximilien.... "And the fault is all thine. I cannot, all by myself, make the canoe to go in water like this! The fault is all thine: I told thee not to dive, thou stupid!"
—"Ou fou!" cried Stéphane, becoming angry. "Moin ka pagayé!" (I am paddling.)
—"Beast! never may we get home so! Paddle, thou lazy;—paddle, thou nasty!"
—"Macaquethou!—monkey!"
—"Chabin!—must be chabin, for to be stupid so!"
—"Thou black monkey!—thou species ofouistiti!"
—"Thou tortoise-of-the-land!—thou slothful more thanmolocoye!"
—"Why, thou cursed monkey, if thou sayest I do not paddle, thou dost not know how to paddle!"...
... But Maximilien's whole expression changed: he suddenly stopped paddling, and stared before him and behind him at a great violet band broadening across the sea northward out of sight; and his eyes were big with terror as he cried out:—
—"Mais ni qui chose qui douôle içitt!... There is something queer, Stéphane; there is something queer."...
—"Ah! you begin to see now, Maximilien!—it is the current!"
—"A devil-current, Stéphane.... We are drifting: we will go to the horizon!"...
To the horizon—"nou kallé Ihorizon!"—a phrase of terrible picturesqueness.... In the creole tongue, "to the horizon" signifies to the Great Open—into the measureless sea.
—"C'est pa lapeine pagayé atouèlement!" (It is no use to paddle now), sobbed Maximilien, laying down his palettes.
—"Si! si!" said Stéphane, reversing the motion: "paddle with the current."
—"With the current! It runs to La Dominique!"
—"Pouloss," phlegmatically returned Stéphane,—"ennou!—let us make for La Dominique!"
—"Thou fool!—it is more than past forty kilometres....Stéphane, mi! gadé!—mi qui gouôs requ'em!"
A long black fin cut the water almost beside them, passed, and vanished,—a requin indeed! But, in his patois, the boy almost re-echoed the name as uttered by quaint Père Du Tertre, who, writing of strange fishes more than two hundred years ago, says it is called REQUIEM, because for the man who findeth himself alone with it in the midst of the sea, surely a requiem must be sung.
—"Do not paddle, Stéphane!—do not put thy hand in the water again!"
... TheLa Guayrawas a point on the sky-verge;—the sun's face had vanished. The silence and the darkness were deepening together.
—"Si lanmè ka vini plis fò, ça nou ké fai?" (If the sea roughens, what are we to do?) asked Maximilien.
—"Maybe we will meet a steamer," answered Stéphane: "theOrinocowas due to-day."
—"And if she pass in the night?"
—"They can see us."...
—"No, they will not be able to see us at all. There is no moon."
—"They have lights ahead."
—"I tell thee, they will not see us at all,—pièss! pièss!"
—"Then they will hear us cry out."
—"No,—we cannot cry so loud. One can hear nothing but a steam-whistle or a cannon, with the noise of the wind and the water and the machine.... Even on the Fort-de-France packet one cannot hear for the machine. And the machine of theOrinocois more big than the church of the 'Centre.'"
—"Then we must try to get to La Dominique."
... They could now feel the sweep of the mighty current;—it even seemed to them that they could hear it,—a deep low whispering. At long intervals they saw lights,—the lights of houses in Pointe-Prince, in Fond-Canonville,—in Au Prêcheur. Under them the depth was unfathomed:—hydrographic charts mark itsans-fond.And they passed the great cliffs of Aux Abymes, under which lies the Village of the Abysms.
The red glare in the west disappeared suddenly as if blown out;—the rim of the sea vanished into the void of the gloom;—the night narrowed about them, thickening like a black fog. And the invisible, irresistible power of the sea was now bearing them away from the tall coast,—over profundities unknown,—over thesans-fond,—out "to the horizon."
... Behind the canoe a long thread of pale light quivered and twisted: bright points from time to time mounted up, glowered like eyes, and vanished again;—glimmerings of faint flame wormed away on either side as they floated on. And the little craft no longer rocked as before;—they felt another and a larger motion,—long slow ascents and descents enduring for minutes at a time;—they were riding the great swells,—riding the horizon!
Twice they were capsized. But happily the heaving was a smooth one, and their little canoe could not sink: they groped for it, found it, righted it, and climbed in, and baled out the water with their hands.
From time to time they both cried out together, as loud as they could,—"Sucou!—sucou!—sucou!"—hoping that some one might be looking for them.... The alarm had indeed been given; and one of the little steam-packets had been sent out to look for them,—with torch-fires blazing at her bows; but she had taken the wrong direction.
—"Maximilien," said Stéphane, while the great heaving seemed to grow vaster,—"fau nou ka prié Bon-Dié."...
Maximilien answered nothing.
—"Fau prié Bon-Dié" (We must pray to the Bon-Dié), repeated Stéphane.
—"Pa lapeine, li pas pè ouè nou atò!" (It is not worth while: He cannot see us now) answered the little black.
... In the immense darkness even the loom of the island was no longer visible.
—"O Maximilien!—Bon-Dié ka ouè toutt, ha connaitt toutt" (He sees all; He knows all), cried Stéphane.
—"Y pa pè ouè non pièss atouèlement, moin ben sur!" (He cannot see us at all now,—I am quite sure) irreverently responded Maximilien....
—"Thou thinkest the Bon-Dié like thyself!—He has not eyes like thou," protested Stéphane. "Li pas ka tiny coulé; li pas ka tini zié" (He has not color; He has not eyes), continued the boy, repeating the text of his catechism,—the curious creole catechism of old Perè Goux, of Carbet. [Quaint priest and quaint catechism have both passed away.]
—"Moin pa save si li pa ka tini coulè" (I know not if He has not color), answered Maximilien. "But what I well know is that if He has not eyes. He cannot see....Fouinq!—how idiot!"
—"Why, it is in the Catechism," cried Stéphane.... "'Bon-Dié, li conm vent: vent tout-patout, et nou pa save ouè li;—li ka touché nou,—li ka boulvésé lamnè." (The Good-God is like the Wind: the Wind is everywhere, and we cannot see It;—It touches us,—It tosses the sea.)
—"If the Bon-Dié is the Wind," responded Maximilien, "then pray thou the Wind to stay quiet."
—"The Bon-Dié is not the Wind," cried Stéphane: "He is like the Wind, but He is not the Wind."...
—"Ah! soc-soc!—fouinq!... More better past praying to care we be not upset again and eaten by sharks."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
... Whether the little chabin prayed either to the Wind or to the Bon-Dié, I do not know. But the Wind remained very quiet all that night,—seemed to hold its breath for fear of ruffling the sea. And in the Mouillage of St. Pierre furious American captains swore at the Wind because it would not fill their sails.
Perhaps, if there had been a breeze, neither Stéphane nor Maximilien would have seen the sun again. But they saw him rise.
Light pearled in the east, over the edge of the ocean, ran around the rim of the sky and yellowed: then the sun's brow appeared;—a current of gold gushed rippling across the sea before him;—and all the heaven at once caught blue fire from horizon to zenith. Violet from flood to cloud the vast recumbent form of Pelée loomed far behind,—with long reaches of mountaining: pale grays o'ertopping misty blues. And in the north another lofty shape was towering,—strangely jagged and peaked and beautiful,—the silhouette of Dominica: a sapphire saw!... No wandering clouds:—over far Pelée only a shadowy piling of nimbi.... Under them the sea swayed dark as purple ink—a token of tremendous depth.... Still a dead calm, and no sail in sight.
—"Ça c'est la Dominique," said Maximilien,—"Ennou pou ouivage-à!"
They had lost their little palettes during the night;—they used their naked hands, and moved swiftly. But Dominica was many and many a mile away. Which was the nearer island, it was yet difficult to say;—in the morning sea-haze, both were vapory,—difference of color was largely due to position....
Sough!—sough!—sough!—A bird with a white breast passed overhead; and they stopped paddling to look at it,—a gull. Sign of fair weather!—it was making for Dominica.
—"Moin ni ben faim," murmured Maximilien. Neither had eaten since the morning of the previous day,—most of which they had passed sitting in their canoe.
—"Moin ni anni soif," said Stéphane. And besides his thirst he complained of a burning pain in his head, always growing worse. He still coughed, and spat out pink threads after each burst of coughing.
The heightening sun flamed whiter and whiter: the flashing of waters before his face began to dazzle like a play of lightning.... Now the islands began to show sharper lines, stronger colors; and Dominica was evidently the nearer;—for bright streaks of green were breaking at various angles through its vapor-colored silhouette, and Martinique still remained all blue.
... Hotter and hotter the sun burned; more and more blinding became his reverberation. Maximilien's black skin suffered least; but both lads, accustomed as they were to remaining naked in the sun, found the heat difficult to bear. They would gladly have plunged into the deep water to cool themselves, but for fear of sharks;—all they could do was to moisten their heads, and rinse their mouths with sea-water.
Each from his end of the canoe continually watched the horizon. Neither hoped for a sail, there was no wind; but they looked for the coining of steamers,—theOrinocomight pass, or the English packet, or some one of the small Martinique steamboats might be sent out to find them.
Yet hours went by; and there still appeared no smoke in the ring of the sky,—never a sign in all the round of the sea, broken only by the two huge silhouettes.... But Dominica was certainly nearing;—the green lights were spreading through the luminous blue of her hills.
... Their long immobility in the squatting posture began to tell upon the endurance of both boys,—producing dull throbbing aches in thighs, hips, and loins.... Then, about mid-day, Stéphane declared he could not paddle any more;—it seemed to him as if his head must soon burst open with the pain which filled it: even the sound of his own voice hurt him,—he did not want to talk.
... And another oppression came upon them,—in spite of all the pains, and the blinding dazzle of waters, and the biting of the sun: the oppression of drowsiness. They began to doze at intervals,—keeping their canoe balanced in some automatic way,—as cavalry soldiers, overweary, ride asleep in the saddle.
But at last, Stéphane, awaking suddenly with a paroxysm of coughing, so swayed himself to one side as to overturn the canoe; and both found themselves in the sea.
Maximilien righted the craft, and got in again; but the little chabin twice fell back in trying to raise himself upon his arms. He had become almost helplessly feeble. Maximilien, attempting to aid him, again overturned the unsteady little boat; and this time it required all his skill and his utmost strength to get Stéphane out of the water. Evidently Stéphane could be of no more assistance;—the boy was so weak he could not even sit up straight.
—"Aïe! ou kê jété nou encò," panted Maximilien,—"metté ou toutt longue."
Stéphane slowly let himself down, so as to lie nearly all his length in the canoe,—one foot on either side of Maximilien's hips. Then he lay very still for a long time,—so still that Maximilien became uneasy.
—"Ou ben malade?" he asked.... Stéphane did not seem to hear: his eyes remained closed.
—"Stéphane!" cried Maximilien, in alarm,—"Stéphane!"
—"C'est lò, papoute," murmured Stéphane, without lifting his eyelids,—"ça c'est lò!—ou pa janmain cuè yon bel pièce conm ça?" (It is gold, little father.... Didst thou ever see a pretty piece like that?... No, thou wilt not beat me, little father?—no,papoute!)
—"Ou ka dòmi, Stéphane?"—queried Maximilien, wondering,—"art asleep?"
But Stéphane opened his eyes and looked at him so strangely! Never had he seen Stéphane look that way before.
—"Ça ou ni, Stéphane?—what ails thee?—aïe! Bon-Dié, Bon-Dié?"
—"Bon-Dié!"—muttered Stéphane, closing his eyes again at the sound of the great Name,—"He has no color;—He is like the Wind."...
—"Stéphane!"...
—"He feels in the dark;—He has not eyes."...
—"Stéphane, pa pàlé ça!"
—"He tosses the sea.... He has no face;—He lifts up the dead... and the leaves."...
ARMISTICE DAY, FORT-DE-FRANCEA review at 7 A. M. by the governor anti his staff, all in evening dress, with cannons booming as noisily as in the north—followed by a day busily devoted to doing nothing.
ARMISTICE DAY, FORT-DE-FRANCEA review at 7 A. M. by the governor anti his staff, all in evening dress, with cannons booming as noisily as in the north—followed by a day busily devoted to doing nothing.
—"Ou fou!" cried Maximilien, bursting into a wild fit of sobbing,—"Stéphane, thou art mad!"
And all at once he became afraid of Stéphane,—afraid of all he said,—afraid of his touch,—afraid of his eyes... he was growing like azombi!
But Stéphane's eyes remained closed;—he ceased to speak.
... About them deepened the enormous silence of the sea;—low swung the sun again. The horizon was yellowing: day had begun to fade. Tall Dominica was now half green; but there yet appeared no smoke, no sail, no sign of life.
And the tints of the two vast Shapes that shattered the rim of the light shifted as if evanescing,—shifted like tones of West Indian fishes,—ofpisquetteandcongre,—ofcaringueandgouôs-ziéandbalaou.Lower sank the sun;—cloud-fleeces of orange pushed up over the edge of the west;—a thin warm breath caressed the sea,—sent long lilac shudderings over the flanks of the swells. Then colors changed again: violet richened to purple;—greens blackened softly;—grays smouldered into smoky gold.
And the sun went down.
And they floated into the fear of the night together. Again the ghostly fires began to wimple about them: naught else was visible but the high stars.
Black hours passed. From minute to minute Maximilien cried out:—"Sucou! sucou!" Stéphane lay motionless and dumb: his feet, touching Maximilien's naked hips, felt singularly cold.
... Something knocked suddenly against the bottom of the canoe,—knocked heavily—making a hollow loud sound. It was not Stéphane;—Stéphane lay still as a stone: it was from the depth below. Perhaps a great fish passing.
It came again,—twice,—shaking the canoe like a great blow. Then Stéphane suddenly moved,—drew up his feet a little,—made as if to speak:—"Ou..."; but the speech failed at his lips,—ending in a sound like the moan of one trying to call out in sleep;—and Maximilien's heart almost stopped beating.... Then Stéphane's limbs straightened again; he made no more movement;—Maximilien could not even hear him breathe.... All the sea had begun to whisper.
A breeze was rising;—Maximilien felt it blowing upon him. All at once it seemed to him that he had ceased to be afraid,—that he did not care what might happen. He thought about a cricket he had one day watched in the harbor,—drifting out with the tide, on an atom of dead bark,—and he wondered what had become of it. Then he understood that he himself was the cricket,—still alive. But some boy had found him and pulled off his legs. There they were,—his own legs, pressing against him: he could still feel the aching where they had been pulled off; and they had been dead so long they were now quite cold.... It was certainly Stéphane who had pulled them off....
The water was talking to him. It was saying the same thing over and over again,—louder each time, as if it thought he could not hear. But he heard it very well:—"Bon-Dié, li conm vent... li ka touché nou... nou pa save ouè li." (But why had the Bon-Dié shaken the wind?) "Li pa ka tint zié," answered the water....Ouille!—He might all the same care not to upset folks in the sea!...Mi!...
But even as he thought these things, Maximilien became aware that a white, strange, bearded face was looking at him: the Bon-Dié was there,—bending over him with a lantern,—talking to him in a language he did not understand. And the Bon-Dié certainly had eyes,—great gray eyes that did not look wicked at all. He tried to tell the Bon-Dié how sorry he was for what he had been saying about him;—but found he could not utter a word. He felt great hands lift him up to the stars, and lay him down very near them,—just under them. They burned blue-white, and hurt his eyes like lightning:—he felt afraid of them.... About him he heard voices,—always speaking the same language, which he could not understand.... "Poor little devils!—poor little devils!" Then he heard a bell ring; and the Bon-Dié made him swallow something nice and warm;—and everything became black again. The stars went out!...
... Maximilien was lying under an electric-light on board the great steamerRio de Janeiro, and dead Stéphane beside him.... It was four o'clock in the morning.