Letters From My Windmill (7 page)

Picture a gigantic lamp with six rows of wicks with the inner facets of
the lantern arranged around them, some with an enormous crystal glass
lens, others opened onto a large fixed glass panel which protected the
flame from the wind…. When I came in, I was completely dazzled, and
the coppers, tins, white metal reflectors, rotating walls of convex
crystal glass, with large blue-tinged circles, and all the flickering
lights, gave me a touch of vertigo.

However, gradually my eyes got used to it, and I settled down at the
foot of the lamp, beside the keeper who was reading his Plutarch—for
fear of falling asleep….

Outside, all was dark and desperate. On the small turning balcony, a
maddening gust of wind howled. The lighthouse creaked; the sea roared.
Out on the point, the breakers on the shoals sounded like cannon
shots…. At times, an invisible finger tapped at the panes; it was
some bird of the night, drawn by the light, braining itself against the
glass….

Inside the sparkling, hot lantern, nothing was heard except the
crackling flame, the dripping oil, the chain unwinding and the
monotonous intoning of the life of Demetrius of Phaleron….

* * * * *

At midnight, the keeper stood up, took a last peek at the wicks and we
went below. We passed the keeper of the second watch, rubbing his eyes
as he came up. We gave him the flask and the Petrarch. Then, before
retiring, we briefly entered the locker-room below, which was full of
chains, heavy weights, metal tanks, and rope. By the light of his small
lamp, the keeper wrote in the large lighthouse log, always left open at
the last entry:

Midnight. Heavy seas. Tempest. Ship at sea
.

The other night the mistral took us off course to the Corsican coast,
so to speak. Let's stay there, as it were, while I tell you of an
horrific event, often talked about by the local fishermen during their
evening get-togethers, the details of which came to me by chance.

About two or three years ago, I was out sailing on the Sardinian Sea
with seven or eight customs' men. A tough trip for a landlubber! There
hadn't been a single fair day in the whole of March. The wind
relentlessly pursued us and the sea never, ever, let up.

One evening, as we were running before the storm, our boat found refuge
in the opening to the Straits of Bonifacio, in the midst of an
archipelago…. They were not a welcoming sight: huge bare rocks
covered with birds, a few clumps of absinth, some lenticular scrub, and
here and there pieces of rotting wood half buried in the silt. But,
believe me, for a night's stay, these ominous rocks were a much better
prospect than the half-covered deckhouse of our old boat, where the
waves made themselves very much at home. In fact, we were pleased to
see the islands.

The crew had lit a fire for the bouillabaisse, by the time we were all
ashore. The Master hailed me and pointed out a small outcrop of white
masonry almost lost in the fog at the far end of the island:

—Are you coming to the cemetery? he said.

—A cemetery, Master Lionetti! Where are we then?

—The Lavezzi Islands, monsieur. The six hundred souls from the
Sémillante
are buried here, at the very spot where their frigate
foundered ten years ago…. Poor souls, they don't get many visitors;
the least we can do is to go and say hello to them, while we're here….

—Of course, willingly, skipper.

* * * * *

The
Sémillante's
crew's last resting place was inexpressibly gloomy.
I can still see its small low wall, it's iron gate, rusted and hard to
open, its silent chapel, and hundreds of crosses overgrown by the
grass. Not a single everlasting wreath, not one remembrance, nothing!
Oh, the poor deserted dead; how cold they must be in their unwanted
graves.

We stayed there briefly, kneeling down. The Master was praying loudly,
while gulls, sole guardians of the cemetery, circled over our heads,
their harsh melancholy cries counterpoint to the sea's lamentations.

The prayer finished, we plodded, sadly, back to the spot where the boat
was moored. The sailors had not wasted any time; we were met by a great
roaring fire in the shelter of a rock, with a hot-pot steaming. We all
sat around, feet drying by the flames, and soon everyone had two slices
of rye bread to dunk into a soup-filled terra cotta bowl on our knees.
The meal was eaten in silence; after all, we were wet, and hungry, and
near to the cemetery…. However, once the bowls were empty, we lit our
pipes and started to speak about the
Sémillante
.

—Well, how did it happen? I asked the boat's Captain, who was looking
thoughtfully into the flames, head in hands.

—How did it happen? Captain Lionetti repeated by way of a reply. Then
he sighed,—Alas, monsieur, nobody alive can tell you. All we know is
that the
Sémillante
, loaded with troops bound for the Crimea, had
left Toulon in bad weather the previous night. Later, things changed
for the worse; wind, rain, and enormous seas the like of which had
never been seen before…. In the morning, the wind moderated, but the
sea was still in a frenzy. On top of that, the devil's own fog
descended—you couldn't see a light at four paces. Those fogs,
monsieur, you can't believe how treacherous they can be…. But it
didn't make any difference, I believe the
Sémillante
must have lost
her rudder that morning, for there is no such thing as a risk-free fog,
and the Captain should never have gone aground there. He was a tough
and experienced seafarer, as we all know. He had commanded the naval
station in Corsica for three years, and knew his coast hereabouts as
well as I; and it's all I do know.

—At what time do you think the
Sémillante
foundered?

—It must have been at midday; yes, monsieur, right in the middle of
the day. But, my word, when it comes to sea fogs, midday is no better
than a pitch-black night…. A local customs' officer told me, that at
about half past eleven that day, as he went outside to close his
shutters, the wind got up again and a gust blew his cap off. At the
risk of being carried away himself, he began to scramble after it along
the shore—on his hands and knees. You must understand that customs'
men are not well off, and a cap is an expensive item. It seems that our
man raised his head for a second and noticed a big ship under bare
poles, running before the wind blowing towards the Lavezzi Islands.
This ship was coming fast, so fast that he hardly had time to get a
good look at her. No doubt it was the
Sémillante
because half an hour
later, the island shepherd heard something on these rocks…. But
here's the very shepherd I'm talking about, monsieur; he will tell you
himself…. Good day, Palombo, don't be frightened, come and warm
yourself.

A hooded man, whom I had seen a moment ago hanging around our fire,
came timidly towards us. I had thought he was one of the crew, not
knowing that there was a shepherd on the island.

He was an old, leprous person, not quite all there, and affected by
some awful disease or other which gave him obscenely thickened lips,
horrible to look at. We took great trouble to tell him what it was all
about. Then, scratching his diseased lip, the old man told us that, yes
indeed, from inside his hut he had heard a fearful crash on the rocks
at midday on that day. The island was completely flooded, so he
couldn't go out-of-doors and it wasn't until the next day that he
opened up to see the shore covered in debris and bodies washed up by
the sea. Horrified, he ran to his boat to try to get some help from
Bonifacio.

The shepherd was tired by all this talking, and sat down, and the
Master took up the story:

—Yes, monsieur, this was the unfortunate old man that came to raise
the alarm. He was almost insane with fear, and from that day on, his
mind has been deranged. The truth is, the catastrophe was enough to do
it…. Imagine six hundred bodies piled up haphazardly on the beach
with splinters of wood and shreds of sail-cloth…. Poor
Sémillante
…. The sea had crushed everything to such tiny fragments,
that the shepherd, Palombo, couldn't find enough good timber to make a
fence round his hut…. As for the men, practically all of them were
disfigured and hideously mutilated…. it was pitiful to see them all
tangled up together. We found the captain in full dress uniform, and
the chaplain with his stole round his neck. In one place, between two
rocks, lay the ship's young apprentice, open-eyed…. He looked as
though he was still alive—but he wasn't. It was fated; no one could
have survived.

Here the Master broke off his tale:

—Hey, Nardi, he cried, the fire's going out.

Nardi threw two or three pieces of tarred planking onto the embers
which spluttered and then blazed. Lionetti continued,

—The saddest thing about this story is this…. Three weeks before the
disaster, a small corvette, similar to the
Sémillante
, on its way to
the Crimea was also wrecked in the same way, almost at the same place.
This time however, we managed to save the crew and twenty soldiers in
transit who were on board…. These unfortunate soldiers, you see, were
not able to go about their business. We took them to Bonifacio and they
stayed with us at the port for two days…. Once they were thoroughly
dried out and back on their feet, we bade them farewell and good luck,
and they returned to Toulon, where they later set sail once again for
the Crimea…. It's not too difficult to guess which ship they sailed
on! Yes, monsieur, it was the
Sémillante
…. We found all twenty of
them amongst the dead, just where we are now…. I, myself, recovered a
good looking Brigadier with fine whiskers, a fresh-faced man from
Paris, whom I had put up at my house and who had made us laugh
continuously with his tales…. To see him there was heart breaking.
Oh, Holy Mother of God!…

With that, Lionetti, deeply moved, knocked out his pipe and tottered
off to his cabin wishing me goodnight…. The sailors spoke quietly to
each other for a while, then they put out their pipes one by one.
Nothing more was said. The old shepherd went off, and I remained alone,
to mull things over, sitting amongst the sleeping crew.

* * * * *

Still affected by the horrendous tale I had just heard, I tried to
reconstruct in my mind the unfortunate lost ship and the story of the
agonising event witnessed only by the gulls. A few details struck me
and helped me to fill out all the twists and turns of the drama: the
Captain in full dress uniform, the Chaplain's stole, the twenty
soldiers in transit. I visualised the frigate leaving Toulon at night.
As she left the port, the sea was up, the wind was terrible; but the
Captain was a valiant and experienced sailor and everybody on board was
relaxed.

A fog got up in the morning. A sense of unease began to spread. The
whole crew were on deck. The Captain stayed on the quarter-deck. In the
'tween-decks where the soldiers were billeted, it was pitch black, and
the air was hot. Some of the men were sea-sick. The ship pitched
horribly, which made it impossible to stand up. They talked in groups,
sitting on the floor, clutching the benches for dear life; they had to
shout to be heard. Some of them started to feel afraid. Listen,
shipwrecks are common around those parts; the soldiers were there
themselves to prove it, and what they said was not at all reassuring.
Especially the Brigadier, a Parisian, who was always making quips that
made your flesh creep:

—A shipwreck! How hilarious, a shipwreck. We are about to leave for an
icy bath, and then be taken to Captain Lionetti's place in Bonifacio,
where blackbirds are on the menu.

The soldiers laughed….

Suddenly, there was a great creaking sound….

—What the hell's that? What's going on?

—We've just lost the rudder, said a thoroughly sea-drenched sailor who
was running through the 'tween-decks.

—Have a good trip! cried the never-say-die Brigadier, but this time
the remark caused no laughter.

There was chaos on deck, but everything was hidden by the fog. The
sailors were all over the place, scared, and groping about…. No
rudder! Changing course was impossible…. The
Sémillante
could only
run before the wind…. It was at that moment that the customs' officer
saw her; it was half past eleven. In front of the frigate, a sound like
a cannon shot was heard…. The breakers! the breakers! It was all up,
there was no hope, ship and men together were going straight onto a lee
shore…. The Captain went down into his cabin…. After a short time
he reappeared on the quarter-deck—in full dress uniform… He wanted
to look right when he died.

In the 'tween-decks, the soldiers were anxiously exchanged glances
without saying a word…. The sick were doing their best to get on
their feet…. Even the Brigadier wasn't laughing any more…. It was
then that the door opened and the Chaplain appeared on the threshold
wearing his stole:

—Kneel down, my children!

Those who could obeyed, and in a resounding voice, the priest began the
prayer for the dying.

Suddenly, there was a formidable impact, a cry, one cry consisting of
many, an immense cry, their arms fully tensed, their hands all clasped
together, their shocked faces looking at a vision of death as it passed
before them like a stroke of lightning….

Mercy!…

That is how I spent the whole night, ten years after the event,
reliving, and evoking the spirit of the ill-fated ship whose wreckage
was all around me. Far away, in the straits, the storm was still raging
on. The camp-fire's flame was blown flat by a gust of wind, and I could
hear our boat bobbing listlessly about at the foot of the rocks, its
mooring squealing.

The boat
Emilie
from Porto-Vecchio, on which I had made the mournful
voyage to the Lavezzi Islands, was a small, old, half-decked, customs'
vessel, with no shelter available from the wind, the waves, nor even
the rain, save in a small, tar covered deckhouse, hardly big enough for
a table and two bunks. It was unbelievable what the sailors had to put
up with in bad weather. Their faces were streaming, and their soaked
tunics steaming, as if in the wash. In the depths of winter, these
unfortunate souls spent whole days like this, crouching on their
drenched seats, shivering in the unhealthy wet and cold, even at
nights. Obviously, a fire couldn't be lit on board, and it was often
difficult to make the shore…. Well, not one of these men complained.
I always saw the same calmness and good humour in them, even in the
most severe weather. And yet, what a gloomy life these customs'
mariners led.