CHAPTER XII
STRIKING THE ROCK UNKNOWN
The sea, the gray sea once more, where Yann was gently gliding along
its broad, trackless road, that leads the fishermen every year to the
Land of Ice.
The day before, when they all had set off to the music of the old
hymns, there blew a brisk breeze from the south, and all the ships
with their outspread sails had dispersed like so many gulls; but that
breeze had suddenly subsided, and speed had diminished; great fog-
banks covered the watery surface.
Yann was perhaps quieter than usual. He said that the weather was too
calm, and appeared to excite himself, as if he would drive away some
care that weighed upon him. But he had nothing to do but be carried
serenely in the midst of serene things; only to breathe and let
himself live. On looking out, only the deep gray masses around could
be seen; on listening, only silence.
Suddenly there was an almost imperceptible rumbling, which came from
below, accompanied by a grinding sensation, as when a brake comes hard
down on carriage wheels. The /Marie/ ceased all movement. They had
struck. Where, and on what? Some bank off the English coast probably.
For since overnight they had been able to see nothing, with those
curtains of mist.
The men ran and rushed about, their bustle contrasting strongly with
the sudden rigidity of their ship. How had the /Marie/ come to a stop
in that spot? In the midst of that immensity of fluid in this dull
weather, seeming to be almost without consistence, she had been seized
by some resistless immovable power hidden beneath the waves; she was
tight in its grasp, and might perish there.
Who has not seen poor birds caught by their feet in the lime? At first
they can scarcely believe they are caught; it changes nothing in their
aspect; but they soon are sure that they are held fast, and in danger
of never getting free again. And when they struggle to get free, and
the sticky stuff soils their wings and heads, they gradually assume
that pitiful look of a dumb creature in distress, about to die. Such
was the case with the /Marie/. At first it did not seem much to be
concerned about; she certainly was careened a little on one side, but
it was broad morning, and the weather was fair and calm; one had to
know such things by experience to become uneasy, and understand that
it was a serious matter.
The captain was to be pitied. It was his fault, as he had not
understood exactly where they were. He wrung his hands, saying: "God
help us! God help us!" in a voice of despair.
Close to them, during a lifting of the fog, they could distinguish a
headland, but not recognize it. But the mists covered it anew, and
they saw it no longer.
There was no sail or smoke in sight. They all jostled about, hurrying
and knocking the deck lumber over. Their dog Turc, who did not usually
mind the movement of the sea, was greatly affected too by this
incident, these sounds from down below, these heavy wallowings when
the low swell passed under, and the sudden calm that afterwards
followed; he understood that all this was unusual, and hid himself
away in corners, with his tail between his legs. They got out the
boats to carry the kedges and set them firm, and tried to row her out
of it by uniting all their forces together upon the tow-lines--a heavy
piece of work this, which lasted ten successive hours. So, when
evening came, the poor bark, which had only that morning been so fresh
and light, looked almost swamped, fouled, and good for nothing. She
had fought hard, floundered about on all sides, but still remained
there, fixed as in a dock.
Night was overtaking them; the wind and the waves were rising; things
were growing worse, when, all of a sudden, towards six o'clock, they
were let go clear, and could be off again, tearing asunder the tow-
lines, which they had left to keep her head steady. The men wept,
rushing about like madmen, cheering from stem to stern--"We're afloat,
boys!"
They were afloat, with a joy that cannot be described; what it was to
feel themselves going forwards on a buoyant craft again, instead of on
the semi-wreck it was before, none but a seaman feels, and few of them
can tell.
Yann's sadness had disappeared too. Like his ship, he became lively
once more, cured by the healthy manual labour; he had found his
reckless look again, and had thrown off his glum thoughts.
Next morning, when the kedges were fished up, the /Marie/ went on her
way to Iceland, and Yann's heart, to all appearance, was as free as in
his early years.
