Letters From My Windmill Alphonse Daudet (top 10 ebook reader .txt) 📖

and good humour in them, even in themost severe weather. And yet, what a gloomy life these customs'mariners led.

They were months away from going home, tacking and reaching aroundthose dangerous coasts. For nourishment they had to make do mainly withmouldy bread and wild onions; they never once tasted wine or meat;these were expensive items and they only earned five hundred francs ayear. Yes, five hundred francs a year. But it didn't seem to botherthem! Everybody there seemed somehow content. Aft of the deckhouse,there was a tub full of rain water for the crew to drink, and I recallthat after the final gulp went down, every last one of them wouldfinish off his mug with a satisfied, "Ah!…"; a comic yet endearingindication of all being well with him.

Palombo, a small, tanned, thick-set man from Bonifacio was themerriest, and the most well at ease of all of them. He was alwayssinging, even in the very worst weather. When the seas were high, whenthe sky was overcast, dark, and hail filled, everyone was all agog,sniffing the air, their hands cupped over their ears, listening andwatching out for the next squall. Even in this great silence of anxietyon board, the voice of Palombo would begin the refrain:

No, dear Sir,

It will cause a stir.

Wise Lisette will stay,

And never ever go away….

And the gust could blow, rattle the tackle, shake and flood the boat,still the customs' man's song continued, rocking like a seagull on thecrests of the waves. Sometimes the wind's accompaniment was too loud,and the words were drowned, but between each breaking wave, in thecascade of draining water, the little ditty was heard once again:

Wise Lisette will stay,

And never ever go away

One day, when it was blowing and raining hard, I didn't hear him. Thiswas so unusual, that I was moved to emerge through the boathouse hatchand shout:

—Hey! Palombo, you're not singing, then?

Palombo didn't reply. He was lying apparently motionless under hisbench. I went up to him; his teeth were chattering and his whole bodywas trembling feverishly.

—He's got a pountoura, his comrades miserably informed me.

This was what they called a stitch in the side, pleurisy. I had neverwitnessed a more miserable sight. There was an overwhelming, leadensky, the boat had water cascading everywhere, the luckless, fevered manwas wrapped in an old rubber coat which glistened like a seal's skin.The cold, the wind, and the jolting of the waves, soon made hiscondition worse. He became delirious; something had to be done.

After doing all we could, and as evening was approaching, we put into asmall, silent, lifeless port, only animated by circling seagulls. Thebeach was shut in by steep-sided, high rocks, impassable scrub andsombre, unseasonably green shrubs. Nearby, close to the sea there was acustom's post, housed in a small white building with grey shutters. Itwas given a rather sinister air, this official outpost, numbered likethe cap on a uniform, by its position, in the middle of such a desertedspot. We took the ailing Palombo down to it, though it was a despairingsanctuary for a sick man. We found the custom's man eating by thefireside with his wife and children. Everybody had a gaunt andjaundiced look, and they were pop-eyed and feverish. The young mother,suckling a baby, shivered as she spoke to us.

—It's a terrible post, the Inspector barely whispered to me. We haveto replace our Customs' men here every two years. The marsh fever eatsthem away….

Nevertheless, the main thing was to get hold of a doctor. There wasn'tone this side of Sartène, many kilometres away. What could we do? Ourmariners were done and could do no more, and it was too far to send oneof the children. Then the woman, leaning outdoors, called:

—Cecco!…Cecco!

And in came a large, well-built chap, a typical specimen of a poacheror Corsican bandit, with his brown wool cap and his goatskin sailorsjacket. I had already noticed him, as we disembarked; he was sitting infront of the door chewing his red pipe, with a rifle between his legs.He made off as we came near; I don't know why. Perhaps he thought wehad gendarmes with us. When he entered, the Customs' woman blushed.

—He's my cousin, she told us. There's no danger that this one will getlost in the Corsican scrub.

Then, she whispered something to him, indicating the sick man. The manbent forward but said nothing. Then he left, whistled his dog, and wasgone, leaping from rock to rock with his long legs, with the rifle onhis shoulder.

The children, who seemed terrified by the Inspector, quickly scoffeddown their dinner of chestnuts and white Corsican goat cheese. Thenthere was the inevitable water; never anything but water on the table.And yet, a sip of wine would have really done the children some good.Oh, what complete and utter misery! After a while, their mother sawthem off to bed, while their father lit his lantern and went out tocheck the coast. We stayed by the fireside looking after the invalid,who was tossing and turning on his pallet, as if he was still at seabeing buffeted by the waves. We warmed up some stones to put on hisside to ease his pleurisy. Once or twice the hapless man recognised meas I approached his bed and put out his hand with great difficulty byway of thanks. His broad hand was as rough and hot as one of the bricksfrom the fire.

It was a miserable vigil! Outside, as night fell, the bad weatherpicked up again, and there was a crash, a rumble, and a great spurt ofspray, as the battle between rocks and water broke out again. From timeto time, the gusts from out at sea blew into the bay and enveloped thehouse. The flames suddenly flared and lit up the blank faces of thesailors around the fireplace. They had the calm expression of those whoroutinely experience wide open spaces and horizons. Occasionally,Palombo moaned gently, and their eyes would turn towards the wretchedplace where the poor man was dying, far from home, and beyond help.Only their breathing and sighing could