University of Virginia Library

8. 'TI CANOTIÉ

I.

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 as packett-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, "Mi! gadé 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 the palettes, 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. …

II.

… 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.

The La Guayra was 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 'ti 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 the La Guayra opened 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 stern of the steamer; and there arose such a heaving as made all the little canoes dance. The La Guayra was 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 the La

Guayra was 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—nicknamed Ti Chabin, because of his bright hair,—a slim little yellow boy of eleven—led the pursuit, crying always, "Encó, Missié,—encó!" …

The La Guayra had 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! The La Guayra was 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 ló!"

—"Assez, non!" screamed Maximilien. "Pa plongé 'ncó, 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. … The La Guayra now 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, gàdé sang-à ka coulé nans nez ou,-nans bouche ou! … Mi oti Iézautt!"

Lèzautt, 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 ló!" 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 the La 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 dómi?" (Thou dost not paddle, eh?—thou wouldst go to sleep?)

—"Si! moin ka pagayé,—epi fó!" (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!"

—"Macaque thou!—monkey!"

—"Chabin!—must be chabin, for to be stupid so!"

—"Thou black monkey!—thou species of ouistiti!"

—"Thou tortoise-of-the-land!—thou slothful more than molocoye!"

—"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 lhorizon!"—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 quz" 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 Dutertre, 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!"

III.

… THE La Guayra was 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 fó, ça nou ké fai?" (If the sea roughens, what are we to do?) asked Maximilien.

—"Maybe we will meet a steamer," answered Stéphane: "the Orinoco was 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! 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 the Orinoco is 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 it sans-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 the sans-fond,—out to the horizon.

IV.

… 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 ató!" (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.

—"0 Maximilien!—Bon-Dié ka ouè toutt, ka connaitt toutt" (He sees all; He knows all), cried Stéphane.

—"Y pa pè ouè non pièss atouèelement, 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 tini coulè; 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 lanmè.'" (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,

V.

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 Sea! … 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 coming of steamers,—the Orinoco might 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.

VI.

… 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 ké jété nou encó," 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 ló, papoute," murmured Stéphane, without lifting his eyelids,—"ça c'est ló!—ou pa janmain ouè 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 dómi, 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.

—"C'a 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." …

—"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 a zombi!

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,—of pisquette and congre,—of caringue and gouôs-zié and balaou. 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.

VII.

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 tini 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 steamer Rio de Janeiro, and dead Stéphane beside him. … It was four o'clock in the morning.