Kitabı oku: «Mare Nostrum (Our Sea)», sayfa 26
CHAPTER XI
"FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE"
When Ferragut left Barcelona the wound in his shoulder was already nearly healed. The rotund negative given by the captain and his pilot to the questions of the Carabineers freed them from further annoyance. They "knew nothing,—had seen nothing." The captain received with feigned indifference the news that the dead body of a man had been found that very night,—a man who appeared to be a German, but without papers, without anything that assured his identification,—on a dock some distance from the berth occupied by the Mare Nostrum. The authorities had not considered it worth while to investigate further, classifying it as a simple struggle among refugees.
Provisioning the troops of the Orient obliged Ferragut, in the months following, to sail as part of a convoy. A cipher dispatch would sometimes summon him to Marseilles, at others to an Atlantic port,—Saint-Nazaire, Quiberon, or Brest.
Every few days ships of different class and nationality were arriving. There were those that displayed their aristocratic origin by the fine line of the prow, the slenderness of the smokestacks and the still white color of their upper decks: they were like the high-priced steeds that war had transformed into simple beasts of battle. Former mail-packets, swift racers of the waves, had descended to the humble service of transport boats. Others, black and dirty, with the pitchy plaster of hasty reparation and a consumptive smokestack on an enormous hull, plowed along, coughing smoke, spitting ashes, panting with the jangle of old iron. The flags of the Allies and those of the neutral navies waved on the different ships. Reuniting, they formed a convoy in the broad bay. There were fifteen or twenty steamers, sometimes thirty, which had to navigate together, adjusting their different speeds to a common pace. The cargo boats, merchant steamers that made only a few knots an hour, exacted a desperate slowness of the rest of the convoy.
The Mare Nostrum had to sail at half speed, making its captain very impatient with these monotonous and dangerous peregrinations, extending over weeks and weeks.
Before setting out, Ferragut, like all the other captains, would receive sealed and stamped orders. These were from the Commodore of the convoy,—the commander of a torpedo destroyer, or a simple officer of the Naval Reserve in charge of a motor trawler armed with a quickfiring gun.
The steamers would begin belching smoke and hoisting anchors without knowing whither they were going. The official document was opened only at the moment of departure. Ulysses would break the seals and examine the paper, understanding with facility its formal language, written in a common cipher. The first thing that he would look out for was the port of destination, then, the order of formation. They were to sail in single file or in a double row, according to the number of vessels. The Mare Nostrum, represented by a certain number, was to navigate between two other numbers which were those of the nearest steamers. They were to keep between them a distance of about five hundred yards; it was important that they should not come any nearer in a moment of carelessness, nor prolong the line so that they would be out of sight of the watchful guardians.
At the end, the general instructions for all the voyages were repeated with a laconic brevity that would have made other men, not accustomed to look death in the face, turn pale. In case of a submarine attack, the transports that carried guns were to come out from the line and aid the patrol of armed vessels, attacking the enemy. The others were to continue their course tranquilly, without paying any attention to the attack. If the boat in front of them or the one following was torpedoed, they were not to stop to give it aid. The torpedo boats and "chaluteros" were charged with saving the wrecked ship if it were possible. The duty of the transport was always to go forward, blind and deaf, without getting out of line, without stopping, until it had delivered at the terminal port the fortune stowed in its holds.
This march in convoy imposed by the submarine war represented a leap backward in the life of the sea. It recalled to Ferragut's mind the sailing fleets of other centuries, escorted by navies in line, punctuating their course by incessant battles, and the remote voyages of the galleons of the Indies, setting forth from Seville in fleets when bound for the coast of the New World.
The double file of black hulks with plumes of smoke advanced very placidly in fair weather. When the day was gray, the sea choppy, the sky and the atmosphere foggy, they would scatter and leap about like a troop of dark and frightened lambs. The guardians of the convoy, three little boats that were going at full speed, were the vigilant mastiffs of this marine herd, preceding it in order to explore the horizon, remaining behind it, or marching beside it in order to keep the formation intact. Their lightness and their swiftness enabled them to make prodigious bounds over the waves. A girdle of smoke curled itself around their double smokestacks. Their prows when not hidden were expelling cascades of foam, sometimes even showing the dripping forefoot of the keel.
At night time they would all travel with few lights, simple lanterns at the prow, as warning to the one just ahead, and another one at the stern, to point out the route to the ship following. These faint lights could scarcely be seen. Oftentimes the helmsman would suddenly have to turn his course and demand slackened speed behind, seeing the silhouette of the boat ahead looming up in the darkness. A few moments of carelessness and it would come in on the prow with a deadly ram. Upon slowing down, the captain always looked behind uneasily, fearing in turn to collide with his following ship.
They were all thinking about the invisible submarines. From time to time would sound the report of the guns; the convoy's escort was shooting and shooting, going from one side to the other with agile evolutions. The enemy had fled like wolves before the barking of watch-dogs. On other occasions it would prove a false alarm, and the shells would wound the desert water with a lashing of steel.
There was an enemy more troublesome than the tempest, more terrible than the torpedoes, that disorganized the convoys. It was the fog, thick and pale as the white of an egg, enshrouding the vessels, making them navigate blindly in full daylight, filling space with the useless moaning of their sirens, not letting them see the water which sustained them nor the nearby boats that might emerge at any moment from the blank atmosphere, announcing their apparition with a collision and a tremendous, deadly crash. In this way the merchant fleets had to proceed entire days together and when, at the end, they found themselves free from this wet blanket, breathing with satisfaction as though awaking from a nightmare, another ashy and nebulous wall would come advancing over the waters enveloping them anew in its night. The most valorous and calm men would swear upon seeing the endless bar of mist closing off the horizon.
Such voyages were not at all to Ferragut's taste. Marching in line like a soldier, and having to conform to the speed of these miserable little boats irritated him greatly, and it made him still more wrathful to find himself obliged to obey the Commodore of a convoy who frequently was nobody but an old sailor of masterful character.
Because of all this he announced to the maritime authorities, on one of his arrivals at Marseilles, his firm intention of not sailing any more in this fashion. He had had enough with four such expeditions which were all well enough for timid captains incapable of leaving a port unless they always had in sight an escort of torpedo-boats, and whose crews at the slightest occurrence would try to lower the lifeboats and take refuge on the coast. He believed that he would be more secure going alone, trusting to his skill, with no other aid than his profound knowledge of the routes of the Mediterranean.
His petition was granted. He was the owner of a vessel and they were afraid of losing his coöperation when means of transportation were growing so very scarce. Besides, the Mare Nostrum, on account of its high speed, deserved individual employment in extraordinary and rapid service.
He remained in Marseilles some weeks waiting for a cargo of howitzers, and meandered as usual around the Mediterranean capital. He passed the evenings on the terrace of a cafe of the Cannebière. The recollection of von Kramer always loomed up in his mind at such times. "I wonder if they have shot him!…" He wished to know, but his investigations did not meet with much success. War Councils avoid publicity regarding their acts of justice. A Marseilles merchant, a friend of Ferragut, seemed to recall that some months before a German spy, surprised in the harbor, had been executed. Three lines, no more, in the newspapers, gave an account of his death. They said that he was an officer…. And his friend went on talking about the war news while Ulysses was thinking that the executed man could not have been any one else but von Kramer.
On that same afternoon he had an encounter. While passing through the street of Saint-Ferreol, looking at the show windows, the cries of several conductors of cabs and automobiles who could not manage to drive their vehicles through the narrow and crowded streets, attracted his attention. In one carriage he saw a blonde lady with her back to him, accompanied by two officers of the English navy. Immediately he thought of Freya…. Her hat, her gown, everything about her personality, was so very distinctive. And yet, when the coach had passed on without his being able to get a glimpse of the face of the stranger, the image of the adventuress persisted in his mind.
Finally he became very much irritated with himself, because of this absurd resemblance suspected without any reason whatever. How could that English-woman with the two officers be Freya?… How could a German refugee in Barcelona manage to slip into France where she was undoubtedly known by the military police?… And still more exasperating was his suspicion that this resemblance might have awakened a remnant of the old love which made him see Freya in every blonde woman.
At nine o'clock the following morning, while the captain was in his stateroom dressing to go ashore, Toni opened the door.
His face was scowling and timid at the same time, as though he had some bad news to give.
"That creature is here," he said laconically.
Ferragut looked at him with a questioning expression: "What creature?…"
"Who else could it be?… The one from Naples! That blonde devil that brought us all so much trouble!… We'll see now if this witch is going to keep us immovable for I don't know how many weeks just as she did the other time."
He excused himself as though he had just failed in discipline. The boat was fastened to the wharf by a bridgeway and anybody could come aboard. The pilot was opposed to these dockings which left the passage free to the curious and the importunate. By the time he had finished announcing her arrival, the lady was already on deck near the staterooms. She remembered well the way to the saloon. She had wished to go straight in, but it had been Caragol who had stopped her, while Toni went to advise the captain.
"Cristo!" murmured Ulysses. "Cristo!…"
And his astonishment, his surprise, did not permit him to utter any other exclamation.
Then he burst out furiously. "Throw her overboard!… Let two men lay hold of her and put her back on the wharf, by main force, if necessary."
But Toni hesitated, not daring to comply with such commands. And the impetuous Ferragut rushed outside of his cabin to do himself what had been ordered.
When he reached the saloon some one entered at the same time from the deck. It was Caragol, who was trying to block the passage of a woman; but she, laughing and taking advantage of his purblind eyes, was slipping little by little in between his body and the wooden partition.
On seeing the captain, Freya ran toward him, throwing out her arms.
"You!" she cried in a merry voice. "I knew well enough that you were here, in spite of the fact that these men were assuring me to the contrary…. My heart told me so…. How do you do, Ulysses!"
Caragol turned his eyes toward the place where he supposed the mate must be, as though imploring his pardon. With females he never could carry out any order…. Toni, on his part, appeared in an agony of shame before this woman who was looking at him defiantly.
The two disappeared. Ferragut was not able to say exactly how they got away, but he was glad of it. He feared that the recent arrival might allude in their presence to the things of the past.
He remained contemplating her a long time. He had believed the day before that he had recognized her back, and now he was sure that he might have passed on with indifference had he seen her face. Was this really the same woman that the two English officials were accompanying?… She appeared much taller than the other one, with a slenderness that made her skin appear more clear, giving it a delicate transparency. The nose was finer and more prominent. The eyes were sparkling, hidden in bluish black circles.
These eyes began to look at the captain, humbly and pleadingly.
"You!" exclaimed Ulysses in wonder. "You!… What are you coming here for?"…
Freya replied with the timidity of a bondslave. Yes, it was she who had recognized him the day before, long before he had seen her, and at once had formed the plan of coming in search of him. He could beat her just as at their last meeting: she was ready to suffer everything … but with him!
"Save me, Ulysses! Take me with you!… I implore you even more anxiously than in Barcelona."
"What are you doing here?…"
She understood the captain's amazement on meeting her in a belligerent country, the disquietude he must naturally feel upon finding a spy on his vessel. She looked around in order to make sure that they were entirely alone and spoke in a low voice. The doctor had sent her to France in order that she should "operate" in its ports. Only to him could she reveal the secret.
Ulysses was more indignant than ever at this confidence.
"Clear out!" he said in a wrathful voice. "I don't want to know anything about you…. Your affairs do not interest me at all. I do not wish to know them…. Get out of here! What are you plaguing me for?"
But she did not appear disposed to comply with his orders. Instead of departing, she dropped wearily down on one of the divans of the stateroom.
"I have come," she said, "to beg you to save me. I ask it for the last time…. I'm going to die; I suspect that my end is very near if you will not hold out a helping hand; I foresee the vengeance of my own people…. Guard me, Ulysses! Do not make me go back ashore; I am afraid…. So safe I shall feel here at your side!…"
Fear, sure enough, was reflected in her eyes as she recalled the last months of her life in Barcelona.
"The doctor is my enemy…. She who protected me so in other times abandons me now like an old shoe that it is necessary to get rid of. I am positive that her superior officers have condemned me…."
She shuddered on remembering the doctor's wrath when on her return from one of her trips she learned of the death of her faithful Karl. To her, Captain Ferragut was a species of invulnerable and victorious demon who was escaping all dangers and murdering the servants of a good cause. First von Kramer; now Karl…. As it was necessary for her to vent her wrath on somebody, she had made Freya responsible for all her misfortunes. Through her she had known the captain, and had mixed him up in the affairs of the "service."
Thirst for vengeance made the imposing dame smile with a ferocious expression. The Spanish sailor was doomed by the Highest Command. Precise orders had been given out against him. "As to his accomplices!…" Freya was figuring undoubtedly among these accomplices for having dared to defend Ferragut, for remembering the tragic event of his son, for having refused to join the chorus desiring his extermination.
Weeks afterwards the doctor again became as smiling and as amiable as in other times. "My dear girl, it is agreed that you should take a trip to France. We need there an agent who will keep us informed of the traffic of the ports, of the goings and comings of the vessels in order that our submersibles may know where to await them. The naval officials are very gallant, and a beautiful woman will be able to gain their affection."
She had tried to disobey. To go to France!… where her pre-war work was already known!… To go back to danger when she had already become accustomed to the safe life of a neutral country!… But her attempts at resistance were ineffectual. She lacked sufficient will-power; the "service" had converted her into an automaton.
"And here I am, suspecting that probably I am going to my death, but fulfilling the commissions given to me, struggling to be accommodating and retard in this way the fulfillment of their vengeance…. I am like a condemned criminal who knows that he is going to die, and tries to make himself so necessary that his sentence will be delayed for a few months."
"How did you get into France?" he demanded, paying no attention to her doleful tones.
"Freya shrugged her shoulders. In her business a change of nationality was easily accomplished. At present she was passing for a citizen of a South American republic. The doctor had arranged all the papers necessary to enable her to cross the frontier.
"But here," she continued, "my accomplices have me more securely than as though I were in prison. They have given me the means of coming here and they only can arrange my departure. I am absolutely in their power. I wonder what they are going to do with me!…"
At certain times terror had suggested most desperate expedients to her. She had thought of denouncing herself, of appearing before the French authorities, telling them her story and acquainting them with the secrets which she possessed. But her past filled her with terror, so many were the evils which she had brought against this country. Perhaps they might pardon her life, taking into account her voluntary action in giving herself up. But the prison, the seclusion with shaved head, dressed in some coarse serge frock, condemned to silence, perhaps suffering hunger and cold, filled her with invincible repulsion…. No, death before that!
And so she was continuing her life as a spy, shutting her eyes to the future, living only in the present, trying to keep from thinking, considering herself happy if she could see before her even a few days of security.
The meeting with Ferragut in the street of Marseilles had revived her drooping spirits, arousing new hope.
"Get me out of here; keep me with you. On your ship I could live as forgotten by the world as though I were dead…. And if my presence annoys you, take me far away from France, leave me in some distant country!"
She was anxious to evade isolation in the enemy's territory, obliged to obey her superiors like a caged beast who has to take jabs through the iron grating. Presentiment of her approaching death was making her tremble.
"I do not want to die, Ulysses!… I am not old enough yet to die. I adore my physical charm. I am my own best lover and I am terrified at the thought that I might be shot."
A phosphorescent light gleamed from her eyes and her teeth struck together with a chattering of terror.
"I do not want to die!" she repeated. "There are moments in which I suspect that they are following me and closing me in…. Perhaps they have recognized me and at this moment are waiting to surprise me in the very act…. Do help me; get me away from here; my death is certain. I have done so much harm!…"
She was silent a moment, as though calculating all the crimes of her former life.
"The doctor," she continued, "depends upon her consuming patriotic enthusiasm as the impetus to her work. I lack her faith. I am not a German woman, and being a spy is very repugnant to me…. I feel ashamed when I think of my actual life; every night I think over the result of my abominable work; I calculate the use to which they will put my warnings and my information; I can see the torpedoed boats…. I wonder how many human beings have perished through my fault!… I have visions; my conscience torments me. Save me!… I can do no more. I feel a horrible fear. I have so much to expiate!…"
Little by little she had raised herself from the divan, and, while begging Ferragut's protection, was going toward him with outstretched arms; abject, and yet at the same time caressing, through that desire of seduction that always predominated over all her acts.
"Leave me!" shouted the sailor. "Do not come near me…. Do not touch me!"
He felt that same wrath that had made him so brutal in their interview in Barcelona. He was greatly exasperated at the tenacity of this adventuress who, in addition to the tragic influence she had already exercised upon his life, was now trying to compromise him still further.
But a sentiment of cold compassion made him check his anger and speak with a certain kindness.
If she needed money in order to make her escape, he would give it to her without any haggling whatever. She could name the sum. The captain was disposed to satisfy all her desires except that of living with her. He would give her a substantial amount in order to make her fortune assured and never see her again.
Freya made a gesture of protest at the same time that the sailor began repenting of his generosity…. Why should he do such a favor to a woman who reminded him of the death of his son?… What was there in common between the two?… Their vile love-affair in Naples had been sufficiently paid for with his bereavement…. Let each one follow his own destiny; they belonged to different worlds…. Was he going to have to defend himself all his life long from this insistent charmer?…
Moreover, he was not at all sure that even now she was telling the truth…. Everything about her was false. He did not even know with certainty her true name and her past existence….
"Clear out!" he roared in a threatening tone. "Leave me in peace."
He raised his powerful hand against her, seeing that she was going to refuse to obey. He was going to pick her up roughly, carry her like a light bundle outside the room, outside the boat, flinging her away as though she were remorse.
But her physique, so opulent in its seductions, now inspired him with an unconquerable repugnance; he was afraid of its contact and wished to avoid its electric surprises…. Besides, he wasn't going to maltreat her at every meeting like a professional Apache who mixes love and blows. He recalled with disgust his violence in Barcelona.
And as Freya instead of going away sank back on the divan, with a faintness that seemed to challenge his wrath, it was he who fled in order to bring the interview to an end.
He rushed into his stateroom, locking the door with a bang. This flight brought her out of her inertia. She wished to follow him with the leap of a young panther, but her hands collided with an obstacle that became impassable, while from within sounded the noise of keys and bolts.
She pounded the door desperately, injuring her fists with her fruitless efforts.
"Ulysses, open it!… Listen to me."
In vain she shrieked as though she were giving an order, exasperated at finding that she was not obeyed. Her fury spent itself unavailingly against the solid immovability of the wood. Suddenly she began to cry, modifying her purpose upon finding herself as weak and defenseless as an abandoned creature. All her life appeared concentrated in her tears and in her pleading voice.
She passed her fingers over the door, groping over the moldings, slipping them over the varnished surface as though seeking at random a crevice, a hole, something that would permit her to get to the man that was on the other side.
Instinctively she fell upon her knees, putting her mouth to the keyhole.
"My lord, my master!" she murmured in the voice of a beggar. "Open the door…. Do not abandon me. Remember that I am going to my death if you do not save me."
Ferragut heard her, and, in order to evade her moaning, was getting as near as possible to the end of his stateroom. Then he unfastened the round window that opened on the deck, ordering a seaman to go after the mate.
"Don Antoni! Don Antoni!" various voices cried the whole length of the ship.
Toni appeared, putting his face in the circular opening only to receive the furious vituperation of his captain.
Why had they left him alone with that woman?… They must take her off the boat at once, even if it had to be done by main force…. He commanded it.
The mate went off with a confounded air, scratching his beard as though he had received an order very difficult to execute.
"Save me, my love!" the imploring whisper kept moaning. "Forget who I am…. Think only of the one of Naples…. Of the one whom you knew at Pompeii…. Remember our happiness alone together in the days when you swore never to abandon me…. You are a gentleman!…"
Her voice ceased for a moment. Ferragut heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Toni was carrying out his orders.
But in a few seconds the pleading again burst forth, reconcentrated, tenacious, bent only upon carrying its point, scorning the new obstacles about to interpose between her and the captain.
"Do you hate me so?… Remember the bliss that I gave you. You yourself swore to me that you had never been so happy. I can revive that past. You do not know of what things I am capable in order to make your existence sweet…. And you wish to lose and to ruin me!…"
A clash against the door was heard, a struggle of bodies that were pushing each other, the friction of a scuffle against the wood.
Toni had entered followed by Caragol.
"Enough of that now, Señora," said the mate in a grim voice in order to hide his emotion. "Can't you see that the captain doesn't want to see you?… Don't you understand that you are disturbing him?… Come, now…. Get up!"
He tried to help her to stand up, separating her mouth from the keyhole. But Freya repelled the vigorous sailor with facility. He appeared to be lacking in force, without the courage to repeat his rough action. The beauty of this woman made him afraid. He was still thrilled by the contact of her firm body which he had just torched during their short struggle. His drowsing virtue had suffered the torments of a fruitless resurrection. "Ah, no!… Let somebody else take charge of putting her off."
"Ulysses, they're taking me away!" she cried, again putting her mouth to the keyhole. "And you, my love, will you permit it?… You who used to love me so?…"
After this desperate call, she remained silent for a few instants. The door maintained its immobility; behind it there seemed to be no living being.
"Farewell!" she continued in a low voice, her throat choked with sobs, "you will see me no more…. I am soon going to die; my heart tells me so…. To die because of you!… Perhaps some day you will weep on recalling that you might have saved me."
Some one had intervened to force Freya from her rebellious standstill.
It was Caragol, solicited by the mate's imploring eyes.
His great hairy hands helped her to arise, without making her repeat the protest that had repelled Toni. Conquered and bursting into tears, she appeared to yield to the paternal aid and counsel of the cook.
"Up now, my good lady!" said Caragol. "A little more courage and don't cry any more…. There is some consolation for everything in this world."
In his bulky right hand he imprisoned her two, and, passing his other arm around her waist, he was guiding her little by little toward the exit from the salon.
"Trust in God," he added. "Why do you seek the captain who has his own wife ashore?… Other men who are free are still in existence, and you could make some arrangement with them without falling into mortal sin."
Freya was not listening to him. Near the door she again turned her head, beginning her return toward the captain's stateroom.
"Ulysses!… Ulysses!" she cried.
"Trust in God, Señora," said Caragol again, while he was pushing her along with his flabby abdomen and shaggy breast.
A charitable idea was taking possession of his thoughts. He had the remedy for the grief of this handsome woman whose desperation but made her more interesting.
"Come along, Señora…. Leave it to me, my child."
Upon reaching the deck he continued driving her towards his dominions. Freya found herself seated in the galley, without knowing just exactly where she was. Through her tears she saw this obese old man of sacerdotal benevolence, going from side to side gathering bottles together and mixing liquids, stirring the spoon around in a glass with a joyous tinkling.
"Drink without fear…. There is no trouble that resists this medicine."
The cook offered her a glass and she, vanquished, drank and drank, making a wry face because of the alcoholic intensity of the liquid. She continued weeping at the same time that her mouth was relishing the heavy sweetness. Her tears were mingled with the beverage that was slipping between her lips.
A comfortable warmth began making itself felt in her stomach, drying up the moisture in her eyes and giving new color to her cheeks. Caragol was keeping up his chat, satisfied with the outcome of his handiwork, making signs to the glowering Toni,—who was passing and repassing before the door, with the vehement desire of seeing the intruder march away, and disappear forever.
"Don't cry any more, my daughter…. Cristo del Grao! The very idea! A lady as pretty as you, who can find sweethearts by the dozen, crying!… Believe me; find somebody else. This world is just full of men with nothing to do…. And always for every disappointment that you suffer, have recourse to my cordial…. I am going to give you the recipe."
