Mare Nostrum (Our Sea) by Vicente Blasco Ibanez

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Various squads of men, preceded and followed by bayonets, were marching
with rhythmic tread from one port to another. They were German
prisoners,--rosy and happy, in spite of their captivity, still wearing
their uniforms of green cabbage color, with round caps on their shaved
heads. They were going to work on the vessels, loading and unloading
the material that was to serve for the extermination of their
compatriots and friends.

The ships at the docks seemed to be increasing in size, for on arrival
they had extended only a few yards above the wharf; but now that their
cargo was piled up on land, they appeared like towering fortresses.
Two-thirds of the hull, usually hidden in the water, were now in
evidence, showing the bright red of their curved shell. Only the keel
kept itself in the water. The upper third, that which remained visible
above the line of flotation in ordinary times, was now a simple black
cornice that capped the long purple walls. The masts and smokestacks
diminished by this transformation appeared to belong to other smaller
boats.

Each of these merchant and peaceful steamers carried a quickfirer at
the stern in order to protect itself from the submarine corsairs.
England and France had mobilized their tramp ships and were beginning
to supply them with means of defense. Some of them had not been able to
mount their cannon upon a fixed gun carriage, and so carried a field
gun with its mouth sticking out between the wheels bolted to the deck.

The captain in all his strolls invariably felt attracted by the famous
Cannebiere, that engulfing roadway which sucks in the entire activity
of Marseilles.

Some days a fresh and violent wind would eddy through, littering it
with dust and papers, and the waiters of the cafes would have to furl
the great awnings as though they were the sails of a vessel. The
Mistral was approaching and every owner of an establishment was
ordering this maneuver in order to withstand the icy hurricane that
overturns tables, snatches away chairs, and carries off everything
which is not secured with marine cables.

To Ferragut this famous avenue of Marseilles was a reminder of the
antechamber of Salonica. The same types from the army of the East
crowded its sidewalks,--English dressed in khaki, Canadians and
Australians in hats with up-turned brims, tall, slender Hindoos with
coppery complexion and thick fan-shaped beards, Senegalese
sharpshooters of a glistening black, and Anammite marksmen with round
yellow countenance and eyes forming a triangle. There was a continual
procession of dark trucks driven by soldiers, automobiles full of
officers, droves of mules coming from Spain that were going to be
shipped to the Orient, leaving behind their quick-trotting hoofs a
pungent and penetrating smell of the stable.

The old harbor attracted Ferragut because of its antiquity which was
almost as remote as that of the first Mediterranean navigations. On
passing before the Palace of the Bourse he shot a glance at the statue
of the two great Marseillaise navigators,--Eutymenes and Pytas,--the
most remote ancestors of Mediterranean navigators. One had explored the
coast of Senegambia, the other had gone further up to Ireland and the
Orkney Islands.

The ancient Greek colony had been, during long centuries, supplanted by
others,--Venice, Genoa and Barcelona having held it in humble
subjection. But when those had fallen and its hour of prosperity
returned, that prosperity was accompanied by all the advantages of the
present day. Steam machinery had been invented and boats were easily
able to overcome the obstacles of the Strait of Cadiz without being
obliged to wait weeks until the violence of the current sent by the
Atlantic should abate. Industrialism was born and inland factories sent
forward, over the recently-installed railroads, a downpour of products
that the fleets were transporting to all the Mediterranean towns.
Finally, upon the opening of the Isthmus of Suez, the city unfolded in
a prodigious way, becoming a world port, putting itself in touch with
the entire earth, multiplying its harbors, which became gigantic marine
sheepfolds where vessels of every flag were gathered together in herds.

The old port, boxed in the city, changed its aspect according to the
time and state of the atmosphere. On calm mornings it was a yellowish
green and smelled slightly of stale water,--organic water, animal
water. The oyster stands established on its wharfs appeared sprinkled
with this water impregnated by shell fish.

On the days of a strong wind the waters turned a terrible dark green,
forming choppy and continuous waves with a light yellowish foam. The
boats would begin to dance, creaking and tugging at their hawsers.
Between their hulls and the vertical surface of the wharfs would be
formed mountains of restless rubbish eaten underneath by the fish and
pecked above by the sea-gulls.

Ferragut saw the swift torpedo destroyers dancing at the slightest
undulation upon their cables of twisted steel, and examined the
improvised submarine-chasers, robust and short little steamers,
constructed for fishing, that carried quickfirers on their prows. All
these vessels were painted a metallic gray to make them
indistinguishable from the color of the water, and were going in and
out of the harbor like sentinels changing watch.

They mounted guard out on the high sea beyond the rocky and desert
islands that closed the bay of Marseilles, accosting the incoming ships
in order to recognize their nationality or running at full speed, with
their wisps of horizontal smoke toward the point where they expected to
surprise the periscope of the enemy hidden between two waters. There
was no weather bad enough to terrify them or make them drowsy. In the
wildest storms they kept the coast in view, leaping from wave to wave,
and only when others came to relieve them would they return to the old
port to rest a few hours at the entrance of the Cannebiere.

The narrow passageways of the right bank attracted Ferragut. This was
ancient Marseilles in which may still be seen some ruined palaces of
the merchants and privateers of other centuries. On these narrow and
filthy slopes lived the bedizened and dismal prostitutes of the entire
maritime city.

In this district were huddled together the warriors of the
French-African colonies, impelled by their ardor of race and by their
desire to free themselves gluttonously from the restrictions of their
Mahommedan country where the women live in jealous seclusion. On every
corner were groups of Moroccan infantry, recently disembarked or
convalescing from wounds, young soldiers with red caps and long cloaks
of mustard yellow. The Zouaves of Algiers conversed with them in a
Spanish spattered with Arabian and French. Negro youths who worked as
stokers in the vessels, came up the steep, narrow streets with eyes
sparkling restlessly as though contemplating wholesale rapine. Under
the doorways disappeared grave Moorish horsemen, trailing long garments
fastened at the head in a ball of whiteness, or garbed in purplish
mantles, with sharp pointed hoods that gave them the aspect of bearded,
crimson-clad monks.

The captain went through the upper end of these streets, stopping
appreciatively to note the rude contrast which they made with their
terminal vista. Almost all descended to the old harbor with a ditch of
dirty water in the middle of the gutter that dribbled from stone to
stone. They were dark as the tubes of a telescope, and at the end of
these evil smelling ditches occupied by abandoned womanhood, there
opened out a great space of light and blue color where could be seen
little white sailboats, anchored at the foot of the hill, a sheet of
sparkling water and the houses of the opposite wharf diminished
by the distance. Through other gaps appeared the mountain of
_Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde_ with its sharp pointed Basilica topped by its
gleaming statue, like an immovable, twisted tongue of flame. Sometimes
a torpedo destroyer entering the old harbor could be seen slipping by
the mouth of one of these passageways as shadowy as though passing
before the glass of a telescope.

Feeling fatigued by the bad smells and vicious misery of the old
district, the sailor returned to the center of the city, strolling
among the trees and flower stands of the avenues....

One evening while awaiting with others a street car in the Cannebiere,
he turned his head with a presentiment that some one was looking at his
back.

Sure enough! He saw behind him on the edge of the sidewalk an
elegantly-dressed, clean-shaven gentleman whose aspect was that of an
Englishman careful of his personal appearance. The dapper man had
stopped in surprise as though he might have just recognized Ferragut.

The two exchanged glances without awakening the slightest echo in the
captain's memory.... He could not recall this man. He was almost sure
of never having seen him before. His shaven face, his eyes of a
metallic gray, his elegant pomposity did not enlighten the Spaniard's
memory. Perhaps the unknown had made a mistake.

This must have been the case, judging by the rapidity with which he
withdrew his glance from Ferragut and went hastily away.

The captain attached no importance to this encounter. He had already
forgotten it when, taking the car but a few minutes later, it recurred
to him in a new light. The face of the Englishman presented itself to
his imagination with the distinct relief of reality. He could see it
more clearly than in the dying splendor of the Cannebiere.... He passed
with indifference over his features; in reality he had seen them for
the first time. But the eyes!... He knew those eyes perfectly. They had
often exchanged glances with him. Where?... When?...

The memory of this man accompanied him as an obsession even to his ship
without giving the slightest answer to his questioning. Then, finding
himself on board with Toni and the third officer, he again forgot it.

Upon going ashore on the following days, his memory invariably
experienced the same phenomena. The captain would be going through the
city without any thought of that individual, but on entering the
Cannebiere the same remembrance, followed by an inexplicable anxiety,
would again surge up in his mind.

"I wonder where my Englishman is now," he would think. "Where have I
seen him before?... Because there is no doubt that we are acquainted
with each other."

From that time on, he would look curiously at all the passersby and
sometimes would hasten his step in order to examine more closely some
one whose back resembled the haunting unknown. One afternoon he felt
sure that he recognized him in a hired carriage whose horse was going
at a lively trot through one of the avenues, but when he tried to
follow it the vehicle had disappeared into a nearby street.

Some days passed by and the captain completely forgot the meeting.
Other affairs more real and immediate were demanding his attention. His
boat was ready; they were going to send it to England in order to load
it with munitions destined for the army of the Orient.

The morning of its departure he went ashore without any thought of
going to the center of the city.

In one of the wharf streets there was a barber shop frequented by
Spanish captains. The picturesque chatter of the barber, born in
Cartagena, the gay, brilliant chromos on the walls representing
bullfights, the newspapers from Madrid, forgotten on the divans, and a
guitar in one corner made this shop a little bit of Spain for the
rovers of the Mediterranean.

Before sailing, Ferragut wished to have his beard clipped by this
verbose master. When, an hour later, he left the barber-shop, tearing
himself away from the interminable farewells of the proprietor, he
passed down a broad street, lonely and silent, between two rows of
docks.

The steel-barred gates were closed and locked. The warehouses, empty
and resounding as the naves of a cathedral, still exhaled the strong
odors of the wares which they had kept in times of peace,--vanilla,
cinnamon, rolls of leather, nitrates and phosphates for chemical
fertilizers.

In all the long street he saw only one man, coming toward him with his
back to the inner harbor. Between the two long walls of brick appeared
in the background the wharf with its mountains of merchandise, its
squadrons of black stevedores, wagons and carts. On beyond were the
hulls of the ships sustaining their grove of masts and smokestacks and,
at the extreme end, the yellow breakwater and the sky recently washed
by the rain, with flocks of little clouds as white and placid as silky
sheep.

The man who was returning from the dock and walking along with his eyes
fixed on Ferragut suddenly stopped and, turning upon his tracks,
returned again to the quay.... This movement awakened the captain's
curiosity, sharpening his senses. Suddenly he had a presentiment that
this pedestrian was his Englishman, though dressed differently and with
less elegance. He could only see his rapidly disappearing back, but his
instinct in this moment was superior to his eyes.... He did not need to
look further.... It was the Englishman.

And without knowing why, he hastened his steps in order to catch up
with him. Then he broke into a run, finding that he was alone in the
street, and that the other one had disappeared around the corner.

When Ferragut reached the harbor he could see him hastening away with
an elastic step which amounted almost to flight. Before him was a ridge
of bundles piled up in uneven rows. He was going to lose sight of him;
a minute later it would be impossible to find him.

The captain hesitated. "What motive have I for pursuing this unknown
person?..." And just as he was formulating this question, the other one
slowed down a little in order to turn his head and see if he were still
being followed.

Suddenly a rapid phenomenal transformation took place in Ferragut. He
had not recognized this man's glance when he had almost run into him on
the sidewalk of the Cannebiere, and now that there was between the two
a distance of some fifty yards, now that the other was fleeing and
showing only a fugitive profile, the captain identified him despite the
fact that he could not distinguish him clearly at such a distance.

With a sharp click a curtain of his memory seemed to be dashed aside,
letting in torrents of light.... It was the counterfeit Russian count,
he was sure of that,--shaven and disguised, who undoubtedly was
"operating" in Marseilles, directing new services, months after having
prepared the entrance of the submersibles into the Mediterranean.

Surprise held Ferragut spellbound. With the same imaginative rapidity
with which a drowning person giddily recalls all the scenes of his
former life, the captain now beheld his infamous existence in Naples,
his expedition in the schooner carrying supplies to the submarines and
then the torpedo which had opened a breach in the _Californian_.... And
this man, perhaps, was the one who had made his poor son fly through
the air in countless pieces!...

He also saw his uncle, the _Triton_, just as when a little chap he used
to listen to him in the harbor of Valencia. He recalled his story of a
certain night of Egyptian orgy in a low cafe in Alexandria where he had
had to "sting" a man with his dagger in order to force his way.

Instinct made him carry his hand to his belt. Nothing!... He cursed
modern life and its uncertain securities, which permit men to go from
one side of the world to the other confident, disarmed, without means
of attack. In other ports he would have come ashore with a revolver in
the pocket of his trousers.... But in Marseilles! He was not even
carrying a penknife; he had only his fists.... At that moment he would
have given his entire vessel, his life even, for an instrument that
would enable him to kill ... kill with one blow!...

The bloodthirsty vehemence of the Mediterranean was overwhelming him.
To kill!... He did not know how he was going to do it, but he must
kill.

The first thing was to prevent the escape of his enemy. He was going to
fall upon him with his fists, with his teeth, staging a prehistoric
struggle,--the animal fight before mankind had invented the club.
Perhaps that other man was hiding firearms and might kill him; but he,
in his superb vengeance, could see only the death of the enemy,
repelling all fear.

In order that his victim might not get out of his sight, he ran toward
him without any dissimulation whatever, as though he might have been in
the desert, at full speed. The instinct of attack made him stoop, grasp
a piece of wood lying on the ground,--a kind of rustic handspike,--and
armed in this primitive fashion he continued his race.

All this had lasted but a few seconds. The other one, perceiving the
hostile pursuit, was also running frankly, disappearing among the hills
of packages.

The captain saw confusedly that some shadows were leaping around him,
preventing his progress. His eyes that were seeing everything red
finally managed to distinguish a few black faces and some white
ones.... They were the soldiers and civilian stevedores, alarmed by the
aspect of this man who was running like a lunatic.

He uttered a curse upon finding himself stopped. With the instinct of
the multitude, these people were only concerned with the aggressor,
letting the one who was fleeing go free. Ferragut could not keep his
wrath bottled up on that account. He had to reveal his secret.

"He is a spy!... A _Boche_ spy!..."

He said this in a dull, disjointed voice and never did his word of
command obtain such a noisy echo.

"A spy!..."

The cry made men rise up as though vomited forth by the earth; from
mouth to mouth it leaped, repeating itself incessantly, penetrating
through the docks and the boats, vibrating even beyond the reach of the
eye, permeating everywhere with the confusion and rapidity of sound
waves. "A spy!..." Men came running with redoubled agility; the
stevedores were abandoning their loads in order to join the pursuit;
people were leaping from the steamers in order to unite in the human
hunt.

The author of the noisy alarm, he who had given the cry, saw himself
outdistanced and ignored by the pursuing streams of people which he had
just called forth. Ferragut, always running, remained behind the negro
sharpshooters, the stevedores, the harbor guard, the seamen that were
hastening from all sides crowding in the alleyways between the boxes
and bundles.... They were like the greyhounds that follow the windings
of the forest, making the stag come out in the open field, like the
ferrets that slip along through the subterranean valleys, obliging the
hare to return to the light of day. The fugitive, surrounded in a
labyrinth of passageways, colliding with enemies at every turn, came
running out through the opposite end and continued his race the whole
length of the wharf. The chase lasted but a few instants after coming
out on ground free of obstacles. "A spy!..." The voice, more rapid than
the legs, out distanced him. The cries of the pursuers warned the
people who were working afar off, without understanding the alarm.

Suddenly the fugitive was within a concave semi-circle of men who were
awaiting him firmly, and a convex semi-circle following his footsteps
in irregular pursuit. The two multitudes, closing their extremes,
united and the spy was a prisoner.

Ferragut saw that he was intensely pale, panting, casting his eyes
around him with the expression of an animal at bay, but still thinking
of the possibility of defending himself.

His right hand was feeling around one of his pockets. Perhaps he was
going to draw out a revolver in order to die, defending himself. A
negro nearby raised a beam of wood which he was grasping as a club. The
spy's hand, displaying a bit of paper between the fingers, was hastily
raised toward his mouth; but the negro's blow, suspended in the air,
fell upon his arm, making it hang inert. The spy bit his lips in order
to keep back a roar of pain.

The paper had rolled upon the ground and several hands at once tried to
pick it up. A petty officer smoothed it out before examining it. It was
a piece of thin paper sketched with the outline of the Mediterranean.
The entire sea was laid out in squares like a chess board and in the
center of each of these squares there was a number. These squares were
charted sections whose numbers made the submarines know, by wireless,
where they were to lie in wait for the allied vessels and torpedo them.

Another officer explained rapidly to the people crowding close, the
importance of the discovery. "Indeed he was a spy!" This affirmation
awakened the joy of capture and that impulsive desire for vengeance
that at certain times crazes a crowd.

The men from the boats were the most furious, for the very reason that
they were constantly encountering the treacherous submarine traps. "Ah,
the bandit!..." Many cudgelings fell upon him, making him stagger under
their blows.

When the prisoner was protected by the breasts of various sub-officers,
Ferragut could see him close by, with one temple spotted with blood and
a cold and haughty expression in his eye. Then he realized that the
prisoner had dyed his hair.

He had fled in order to save himself; he had shown himself humble and
timorous upon being approached, believing that it would still be
possible to lie out of it. But the paper that he had tried to hide in
his mouth was now in the hands of the enemy.... It was useless to
pretend longer!...

And he drew himself up proudly like every army man who considers his
death certain. The officer of the military caste reappeared, looking
haughtily at his unknown pursuers, imploring protection only from the
kepis with its band of gold.

Upon discovering Ferragut, he surveyed him fixedly with a glacial and
disdainful insolence. His lips also curled with an expression of
contempt.

They said nothing, but the captain surmised his soundless words. They
were insults. It was the insult of the man of the superior hierarchy to
his faithless servant; the pride of the noble official who accuses
himself for having trusted in the loyalty of a simple merchant marine.

"Traitor!... Traitor!" his insolent eyes and murmuring, voiceless lips
seemed to be saying.

Ulysses became furious before this haughtiness, but his wrath was cold
and self-contained on seeing the enemy deprived of defense.

He advanced toward the prisoner, like one of the many who were
insulting him, shaking his fist at him. His glance sustained that of
the German and he spoke to him in Spanish with a dull voice.

"My son.... My only son was blown to a thousand atoms by the torpedoing
of the _Californian_!"

These words made the spy change expression. His lips separated,
emitting a slight exclamation of surprise.

"Ah!..."

The arrogant light in his pupils faded away. Then he lowered his eyes
and soon after hung his head. The vociferating crowd was shoving and
carrying him along without taking into consideration the man who had
given the alarm and begun the chase.

That very afternoon the _Mare Nostrum_ sailed from Marseilles.

CHAPTER X

IN BARCELONA

Four months later Captain Ferragut was in Barcelona.

During the interval he had made three trips to Salonica, and on the
second had to appear before a naval captain of the army of the Orient.
The French officer was informed of his former expeditions for the
victualing of the allied troops. He knew his name and looked upon him
as does a judge interested in the accused. He had received from
Marseilles a long telegram with reference to Ferragut. A spy submitted
to military justice was accusing him of having carried supplies to the
German submarines.

"How about that, Captain?..."

Ulysses hesitated, looking at the official's grave face, framed by a
grey beard. This man inspired his confidence. He could respond
negatively to such questions; it would be difficult for the German to
prove his affirmation; but he preferred to tell the truth, with the
simplicity of one who does not try to hide his faults, describing
himself just as he had been,--blind with lust, dragged down by the
amorous artifices of an adventuress.

"The women!... Ah, the women!" murmured the French chief with the
melancholy smile of a magistrate who does not lose sight of human
weaknesses and has participated in them.

Nevertheless Ferragut's transgression was of gravest importance. He had
aided in staging the submarine attack in the Mediterranean.... But when
the Spanish captain related how he had been one of the first victims,
how his son had died in the torpedoing of the _Californian_, the judge
appeared touched, looking at him less severely.

Then Ferragut related his encounter with the spy in the harbor of
Marseilles.

"I have sworn," he said finally, "to devote my ship and my life to
causing all the harm possible to the murderers of my son.... That man
is denouncing me in order to avenge himself. I realize that my headlong
blindness dragged me to a crime that I shall never forget. I am
sufficiently punished in the death of my son.... But that does not
matter; let them sentence me, too."

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