The Toilers of the Sea

by Victor Hugo

  All these matters were discussed in a clamor of voices. At the table occupied by the customs officers and coastguards the conversation was conducted in more subdued tones. The business of policing the coasts and harbors calls for less noise and more restraint in conversation.

  The captains' table was presided over by an old oceangoing master mariner, Monsieur Gertrais-Gaboureau. Monsieur Gertrais-Gaboureau was not a man: he was a barometer. His long experience of the sea had given him an extraordinary infallibility as a forecaster. He was accustomed to decree each day what the weather would be like on the following day. He sounded the winds; he felt the pulse of the tides. He said to the clouds: "Show me your tongue"--that is, lightning. He was the physician of the waves, the breezes, the squalls. The ocean was his patient; he had gone around the world as a doctor conducts a clinic, examining each climate in its health and sickness; he thoroughly understood the pathology of the seasons. He could be heard making statements such as this: "Once in 1796 the barometer fell three lines below storm level." He was a seaman from love of the sea, and hated England in proportion to that love. He had made a thorough study of the English navy in order to discover its weak points. He would explain how the Sovereign of 1637 differed from the Royal William of 1670 and the Victory of 1755. He compared their various superstructures. He regretted the towers on the decks and the funnel-shaped tops of the Great Harry of 1514, probably because they had offered such good targets for French gunners. Nations existed for him only in terms of their maritime institutions, and he referred to them by bizarre synonyms of his own devising. For him England was Trinity House, Scotland the Northern Commissioners, and Ireland the Ballast Board. He was a mine of information--an almanac and an alphabet--a volume of tide tables and freight rates. He knew by heart the toll charges of lighthouses, particularly English lighthouses: a penny per ton for passing this one, a farthing per ton for passing that one. He would say: "The Small's Rock lighthouse, which used to use only two hundred gallons of oil, now burns fifteen hundred." One day, when at sea, he had fallen gravely ill and was thought to be dead; with the crew surrounding his hammock, he had interrupted the death rattle to tell the ship's carpenter: "It would be a good idea to have on each side of the caps a sheave hole to house a cast-iron wheel with an iron axle that the mast ropes could run over." A commanding character indeed.

  The subject of conversation was seldom the same at the captains' and the customs officers' tables. But this is precisely what happened at the beginning of this month of February to which our tale has brought us. The three-master Tamaulipas, Captain Zuela, coming from Chile and returning there, attracted the interest of both tables. At the captains' table they discussed her cargo, at the customs men's table what she was up to.

  Captain Zuela, who came from Copiapo, was a Chilean with a bit of Colombian blood who had fought in the wars of independence in an independent manner, sometimes on Bolivar's side and sometimes on Morillo's, depending on which paid him best. He had grown rich by being of service to all. No one could be more of a Bourbon supporter than he, no one more of a Bonapartist, an absolutist, a liberal, an atheist, a Catholic. He belonged to that large party that could be called the Lucrative party. He turned up in France from time to time on some commercial business; and, if rumor spoke truly, he was happy to give passage on his ship to fugitives of all kinds--bankrupts, political refugees, it was all one to him, provided they paid. The embarkation process was quite simple. The fugitive waited at a lonely spot on the coast, and when his ship sailed Zuela sent a boat to pick him up. On his last voyage he had helped a fugitive from justice in the Berton case to escape, and this time he was said to be planning to carry men who had been involved in the Bidassoa affair.121 The police had been alerted and had their eye on him.

  This was a time of flights and escapes. The Restoration122 was a period of reaction; and while revolutions lead to migrations, restorations bring proscriptions. During the seven or eight years after the return of the Bourbons there was widespread panic--in the financial world, in industry, in commerce--when men felt the earth shaking under them and there were numerous bankruptcies. In politics there was a general sauve-qui-peut. Lavalette had taken flight, Lefebvre-Desnouettes had taken flight, Delon had taken flight; special tribunals were dispensing ruthless punishment; and there was the case of Trestaillon. People avoided the bridge at Saumur, the esplanade in La Reole, the wall of the Observatory in Paris, the Tour de Taurias in Avignon--dismal landmarks of history that recalled the work of reactionary forces and still show the mark of their bloodstained hands. The trial of Thistle-wood in London, with its ramifications in France, and the trial of Trogoff in Paris, with its ramifications in Belgium, Switzerland, and Italy, had given rise to widespread grounds for anxiety and motives for flight, and had increased the great subterranean rout that decimated every rank, up to the highest, in the social order of the day. 123 To find a place of safety was the general care. To be suspected of rebellion meant ruin. The spirit of the special tribunals survived the tribunals themselves. Conviction was a matter of course. Suspects fled to Texas, the Rocky Mountains, Peru, Mexico. The men of the Loire--regarded as brigands then, as paladins now--had established the Champ d'Asile.124 A song by Beranger put these words in their mouths: Sauvages, nous sommes francais; prenez pitie de notre gloire. Self-banishment was their only resource. But nothing is less simple than to flee: this monosyllable contains abysses. Everything stands in the way of those seeking to escape. To avoid detection it is necessary to assume disguise. Men of some standing in the world, and indeed some illustrious personages, were reduced to expedients normally practiced only by criminals. Nor were they very good at it. They did not fit comfortably into their assumed identity. The freedom of movement to which they were accustomed made it difficult for them to slip through the meshes of escape. Encountering the police, a rogue on the run behaved with more propriety than a general; but imagine innocence compelled to play a part, virtue disguising its voice, glory wearing a mask! Some dubious-looking character might be a well-known figure in quest of a false passport. The aspect of a man trying to escape might be suspicious, but he might nevertheless be a hero. These are fugitive features characteristic of a particular period that are neglected by what is called regular history but to which the true painter of an age must draw attention. Behind these respectable fugitives slipped a variety of rogues less closely watched and less suspect. A rogue finding it necessary to disappear could take advantage of the confusion and lose himself among the political refugees; and frequently, as we have just said, would seem in this twilight world, thanks to his greater skill, more respectable than his respectable fellow fugitives. Nothing is more inept than integrity under threat from the law. It is totally at a loss and makes all sorts of mistakes. A forger would find it easier to escape than a member of the Convention.125

  It is a curious thing, but it could almost be said that escape from one's country opened up the possibility of new careers, particularly for dishonest characters. The quantity of civilization that a rascal brought with him from Paris or London was a valuable resource in primitive or barbarous countries; it was a useful qualification and made him an initiator in his new country. It was not by any means impossible for him to exchange the rigors of the law for the priesthood. There is something phantasmagorical in a disappearance, and many an escape has had consequences that could not have been dreamed of. An absconding of this kind could lead to the unknown and the chimerical: thus a bankrupt who had left Europe by some illicit route might reappear twenty years later as grand vizier to the Great Mogul or as a king in Tasmania.

  Helping people to escape was a whole industry, and, in view of the numbers involved, a highly profitable one. It could be combined with other kinds of business. Thus those who wanted to escape to England applied to the smugglers, and those who wanted to go to America applied to long-distance operators like Zuela.

  II

  CLUBIN SEES SOMEONE

  Zuela sometimes had a meal in the Auberge Jean. Sieu
r Clubin knew him by sight.

  Sieur Clubin was broad-minded: he was not too proud to know some rogues by sight. He sometimes went so far as to know them personally, shaking hands with them openly in the street and passing the time of day. He spoke English to a smuggler and had a smattering of Spanish for a contrabandista. He had a variety of aphorisms to justify this: "You can get some good out of knowing evil."--"The gamekeeper can learn something from the poacher."--"The pilot must take soundings of the pirate, who is a kind of hidden reef."--"I taste a rascal as a doctor tastes poison." These statements were unanswerable. Everyone agreed that Captain Clubin was right. They thought well of him for not being absurdly overnice. Who would have dared to speak ill of him? All that he did was clearly "for the good of the service." Everything about him was straightforward. Nothing could harm his reputation: it was a crystal so pure that it could not be stained even if it tried. This confidence was the just reward for many years of honesty: that is the good thing about a well-established reputation. Whatever Clubin did or appeared to do was given a favorable interpretation; his faultlessness was an established fact. Moreover, people said, he knew what he was about; and an acquaintance with certain people, which in another man would have been suspicious, served only to enhance his reputation for integrity and cleverness. This reputation for cleverness combined happily with his reputation for naivete without any incongruity or confusion. There is such a thing as a man who is both naive and clever. It is one of the varieties of the respectable citizen, and one of the most valued. Sieur Clubin was one of those men who, if found in close conversation with a swindler or a thief, are accepted and understood--indeed all the more respected-- and are looked on with the approving glance of public esteem.

  The Tamaulipas had now taken on her cargo; she was ready for sea and was due to sail shortly.

  One Tuesday evening the Durande arrived in Saint-Malo while it was still broad daylight. As he stood on the bridge directing his ship's entry into the harbor, Sieur Clubin saw two men engaged in conversation in a lonely spot on a sandy beach between two rocks, near the Petit Bey. Looking through his glass, he recognized one of them as Captain Zuela, and he seems also to have recognized the other.

  The other man was a tall figure with graying hair. He wore the broad-brimmed hat and sober garments of the Friends. He was probably, therefore, a Quaker. He kept his eyes modestly cast down.

  When he arrived at the Auberge Jean Sieur Clubin learned that the Tamaulipas was expected to sail in ten days or so.

  It was later found that he had gathered certain other information.

  That evening he called in on the gunsmith in Rue Saint-Vincent and asked, "Do you know what a revolver is?"

  "Yes," said the gunsmith: "It's American."

  "It's a pistol that reopens the conversation."

  "Yes, it has both the question and the answer."

  "And a comeback to that."

  "Right, Monsieur Clubin. A revolving barrel."

  "And five or six bullets."

  The gunsmith half-opened his mouth and clicked his tongue, making the sound that, accompanied by a nod of the head, expresses admiration.

  "It's a good little weapon, Monsieur Clubin. I think it will make its way."

  "I want a six-barreled revolver."

  "I haven't any of those."

  "What? You call yourself a gunsmith, don't you?"

  "I still haven't got that particular article. It's new, you see. It's just coming into use. In France we only have pistols."

  "The devil!"

  "They're not yet on the market."

  "The devil!"

  "I have some first-class pistols."

  "I want a revolver."

  "I agree that it is more useful. But just wait a bit, Monsieur Clubin."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I think I know of one in Saint-Malo, secondhand."

  "A revolver?"

  "Yes."

  "For sale?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "I think I know where. I'll enquire."

  "When will you be able let me know?"

  "It's secondhand. But a good one."

  "When should I come back?"

  "If I can get you a revolver, you can be sure it will be a good one."

  "When will you let me know?"

  "On your next trip."

  "Don't say that it's for me," said Clubin.

  III

  CLUBIN TAKES SOMETHING AWAY AND BRINGS NOTHING BACK

  Sieur Clubin loaded the Durande, taking on board many head of cattle and a few passengers, and left Saint-Malo for Guernsey as usual on the Friday morning.

  Once the vessel was out at sea and he could leave the bridge for a few moments, Clubin went to his cabin and locked himself in, took up a traveling bag that he kept there, put some articles of clothing into the expanding compartment, and biscuit, some tinned food, a few pounds of chocolate bars, a chronometer, and a spyglass into the main compartment, padlocked the bag, and passed a rope through the handles so that it could be hoisted up if need be. Then he went down to the cable locker in the hold and was seen to bring up a length of rope with knots at regular intervals and a hook at one end, such as is used by caulkers at sea and thieves on land: it is an aid to climbing.

  When he arrived in Guernsey Clubin went to Torteval, where he spent thirty-six hours. He took the traveling bag and the knotted rope, but did not come back with them.

  We must make clear once and for all that the Guernsey we are talking about in this book is the old Guernsey that no longer exists and can now be found only in the country districts. There it is still alive, but in the towns it is dead. This applies also to Jersey. St. Helier is now much the same as Dieppe, St. Peter Port as Lorient. Thanks to progress, thanks to the spirit of enterprise of this gallant little island people, over the last forty years everything has been transformed in this archipelago in the Channel. Where there was shadow, there is now light.

  This said, we can carry on with our story.

  In those days, which distance in time has now made ancient history, smuggling was rife in the Channel. The ships carrying on this illicit trade were particularly numerous on the west coast of Guernsey. Persons who are particularly well informed, and know in precise detail what was happening just half a century ago, cite the names of some of these ships, almost all of them from the Asturias and Guipuzcoa. What is beyond doubt is that scarcely a week went by without one or two of them arriving in Saint's Bay or at Pleinmont. It had almost the air of a regular service. One sea cave on Sark was known, and still is known, as the Boutiques because it was here that customers came to buy the smugglers' wares. For the purposes of this trade a kind of smugglers' language, now forgotten--related to Spanish as Levantine is to Italian--was spoken in the Channel.

  At many points on the English and French coasts there was a secret understanding between the smuggling trade and open and legitimate commerce. The smugglers had the entree to many a great figure in the financial world--through a secret door, it must be said--and they were linked up through subterranean channels with the circulatory system of commerce and the arteries of industry. A businessman at the front door, a smuggler at the back door: this was the story of many fortunes. Seguin alleged this of Bourgain; Bourgain alleged it of Seguin.126 We cannot vouch for the truth of what they said: perhaps they were slandering one another. However that may be, the smugglers, though hunted down by the law, certainly had close connections with the world of finance. They also had contacts with the "best people." The cavern in which Mandrin rubbed shoulders with the Comte de Charolais127 had a respectable exterior and an impeccable facade on society; it was a prosperous and respected establishment.

  All this required much connivance, necessarily concealed. These mysteries could thrive only in impenetrable obscurity. A smuggler knew many things that he was bound to keep silent; to keep strict and inviolable faith was his law. The first quality for a smuggler was loyalty. Without discretion the smuggling trade is impossibl
e. There is a secrecy of fraud as there is the secret of the confession.

  This secrecy was inviolably guarded. The smuggler swore to maintain absolute silence about the trade, and he kept his word. No one was more trustworthy in this respect than a smuggler. One day the alcalde (judge) of Oyarzun captured a smuggler of the Puertos Secos and had him put to the question to force him to reveal the name of the person who financed his enterprise. The smuggler did not name the man: it was in fact the alcalde. Of the two accomplices the judge had been obliged, in order to be seen to be obeying the law, to order the smuggler to be tortured, while the smuggler had been bound to say nothing under torture in order to keep his oath.

  The two most celebrated smugglers frequenting Pleinmont at this period were Blasco and Blasquito. They were tocayos (namesakes). This is a form of relationship among Spanish Catholics that consists in having the same patron saint in paradise--which, it must be agreed, is no less worthy of consideration than having the same father on earth.

  When you were reasonably familiar with the furtive comings and goings of the smugglers and wanted to do business with them, nothing was easier--or more difficult. It was necessary only to have no fear of venturing out at night, to go to Pleinmont, and to confront the mysterious question-mark that stands there.

  IV

  PLEINMONT

  Pleinmont, near Torteval, is one of the three corners of Guernsey. Here, at the tip of the promontory, a high grassy hill rears above the sea.

  The hill is deserted; and it is all the more deserted because there is a house on it. The house adds an element of fear to the solitude: it is said to be haunted.