Mayflower (Flor de mayo): A Tale of the Valencian Seashore

It looked like madness, but the Rector had the reef cut out of the sail. The Garbosa spurted like a race-horse, showing her keel, as she lunged through the waves, now forward and now astern. The boom of the surf ahead could now be heard above the howl of the gale. Finally, from the top of a comber, the beach came into view, the black profiles of the houses standing out against the sky. Then a sharp, snapping, crunching crash! The boat stopped short, grinding and groaning as though her timbers were being torn asunder. The wind caught the sail and the mast went overboard. A huge breaker burst over the stern, washing the men off their feet, and loosening the bales from their fastenings. The Garbosa had struck bottom, but only a few yards from dry land. Out through the surf a swarm of dark figures streamed, splashing into the water and rushing at the boat. Men climbed up on board, and without saying a word to the Rector and his crew, who stood there still speechless from the shock, they began to pick up the bundles and pass them on from hand to hand.

"Tio, tio!" the Rector called, finally recovering his wits, and leaping into the water, which hardly passed his belt.

"Here I am," came the answer from the dark. "But shut up, for God's sake, and get to work!"

And it was a strange weird spectacle, indeed. Darkness, everywhere, and a sea bellowing in the gloom, the reeds and shore-grass bent low under the gale, the breakers tumbling in as though bent on swallowing up the land, while a legion of dark-skinned men, with their clothes off, tugged at great bales in the hold of the vessel that was rapidly going to pieces, or fished them out from the foaming waters and dragged them up on the beach, where they disappeared mysteriously, while, in the intervals between gusts of wind, the sound of creaking wagon wheels could be heard.

Tio Mariano was walking about from one point to another in his long-legged boots, calling off sharp, imperious orders, and flourishing a revolver in his hand. There was no danger from the revenue men. The guards had all been "greased," and were watching to give the alarm if their chief arrived. The gun was for those silent workmen handling the bales, a light-fingered crew, faithful disciples of the doctrine that to steal from a thief is a virtue. But none of them would sneak anything away in the confusion! By God, the first man who tried any tricks would get something!

By the time the Rector had recovered his composure after that nerve-racking day and that terrible landing through the surf, and after he had stopped nursing the bruises received from a fall as the vessel struck, the last wagon was driving off; and the long-shoremen had vanished silently in all directions, as though the beach had eaten them alive. Not a bundle had been lost. Even those caught in the hold of the Garbosa had been pried loose from the crushed timbers, now sunk deep in the sand. Tonet and the two sailors had salvaged the sail, and the few things of value left aboard, and were carrying their load off up the beach. The "cat," meanwhile, who had been washed overboard by the great wave that first swept the boat, had been revived.

"Oh, tio!" the Rector exclaimed, when at last he was alone with his uncle. "I can say that now, can't I! It was a tough job, but we pulled it off, didn't we? The Christ of the Grao stood by us fine! We'll figure up accounts by and by, eh? Now I'm going home to Dolores. And won't she be glad to see me!"

And the pair walked off toward the distant village with scarcely a glance at the poor vessel. The old Garbosa lay there grinding up and down, her nose in the sand, taking each breaker full over the stern, at each crash losing some shred of her entrails out into the night. And thus she died, like a worn-out horse, that labors on in the noblest of emprises without glory and without reward, and finally leaves its bones on the wayside to be picked white by buzzard and crow.

CHAPTER VII
THE NAMING OF THE BOAT

Some days later, tio Mariano handed Pascualo the tidy sum of twelve thousand reales, the captain's share in the proceeds of the venture. But money was the least of the Rector's earnings. He had established himself now solidly in his uncle's grace, for the old man, with very slight risk to his own hide, had cleaned up twice that amount. Besides, the moment the whole story had gone the rounds, Pascualo became the lion of the Valencian water-front. A stroke of genius, that break from the Columbretas in a full gale! The cutter put in there at the height of the storm – and that was no child's play either – but she had her trouble for her pains!

The Rector stood quite aghast at his own good fortune. Adding the profits on the "moonshine" to the pile of money that, dollar by dollar, he and Dolores had stowed away in the place they only knew, you got a figure with which any honest man could start "something." And this "something" must of course have to do with the sea; for Pascualo was not the man to sit around in an easy chair, like his uncle, and skin poor people on shore alive! Smuggling, meanwhile, as a regular thing, was out of the question. That's a thing a young fellow ought to do once, to get his hand in; just as he ought to gamble – for once – since fortune is likely to favor the beginner. But it doesn't pay to flout the devil, in the long run. For a man like the Rector, fishing was the only certain trade, but in his own boat, with nothing lost to outfitters, who sit quietly at home and skim the cream of every catch.

There were many sleepless nights for the sturdy sailor, who kept rolling over and over between the sheets and waking Dolores up to get her opinion on each new idea. At last he made up his mind. His capital must go into a boat, not an ordinary boat, you understand, but the very best, if that were possible, of all the craft that ever set sail from the beach in front of the ox-barn there. His day had come at last, rediel! No more deck-hand business for him, and no more of this going halves. He would own a vessel, and the pole he would plant in front of the house, to carry the nets when drying, would be the tallest in the neighborhood!

And that hull on the ways there, ladies and gentlemen, belongs to the Rector from the Cabañal! His wife, Dolores the beautiful, Dolores the charming, will still have a stall in the Fishmarket, for all her wealth; but she will be selling her own fish soon, her own, I'll have you know. And as the women on their way to the Pescadería now walked along the Gas House drain past the boat yard, with envious eyes they noticed the Rector always hanging around there chewing the end of a cigar, and supervising the carpenters as they sawed and hammered and planed away at the long yellow pitchy brand-new timbers, some of them straight, and strong, and thick, others of them light and curving – the keel, the ribs, the sheathing, of the projected boat! Now, not too fast, boys, not too fast! The Rector is taking his time at this job as at everything else. Go slow and then you'll be sure. No mistakes allowed! There's no hurry! The main thing is to see that this boat is the very best along the shore!

While Pascualo was putting body and soul into his new enterprise, Tonet, with his share in the booty – the Rector had done his best to make it as large as could be – was enjoying one of his seasons of prosperity. In the tumble-down shack where he lived with Rosario to the tune of quarrels, swear-words and cudgelings, not the slightest trace of abundance entered after the lucky trip "across the way." The poor woman was as usual up at sunrise to carry her baskets of fish to Valencia or even to Torrente or Betera, at times – always on foot – to save the price of a wagon. And when the weather was not right for fishing, she spent her days in her hovel, in company with her poverty and her despair. But Tonet, her Tonet, was handsomer than ever, in a new suit of clothes, with money in his pockets all the time, and a regular seat in the café, except when he was away, with some of the boys, at Valencia, going the rounds of the gambling joints, or spending gay nights in the Fishmarket section. Nevertheless, whenever he saw his uncle, and not to allow any of his claims on that worthy gentleman's pull to lapse, he would bring up the subject of the job on the harbor survey; for, chasing that position was his one serious occupation in times when he was out of money.

The fleeting prosperity that the African venture brought took him back to the joyous days of his marriage. With that happy virtue he had of taking no thought for the morrow, and with all that cynical gayety which endeared him so to women, he was not worried about what would happen when the wind-fall his brother had brought him should be exhausted. For that matter, his companions in roistering sometimes paid, and he had an occasional run of luck at cards. He would come home late at night to go to bed, scowling and cursing between his teeth. But woe to Rosario if she ventured any protest. For periods of two or three days, at times, he would not be seen there at all. Not so, however, in his brother's house. There he went frequently, loafing about the kitchen with Dolores, if the Rector was not at home, listening with bowed head and resigned humility, to the lectures she gave him on his scandalous conduct. When Pascualo happened in on one of these dressing-downs, he always seconded loyally the sound preaching of his wife. Yes, sir, Dolores was cross like that, because she was really fond of him! As a respectable woman, she couldn't afford to have a brother-in-law tearing around all the time and being the talk of the town. And the fat good-natured sailor's eyes would fill with tears, ira de diós, at what his Dolores was saying, a real woman, by God, as kind as a mother to that fool of a boy!

As his funds got lower, Tonet's attendance on his brother's household was still more assiduous. He was turning the motherly advice he got there to good account. And to avoid any chance of gossip, he showed himself day after day with the Rector up at the boat-yard, watching the progress of the big frame which was now receiving its planking and was gradually taking shape under the persistent efforts of hammer, ax and saw.

And summer was coming on. The stretch of seashore between the Gas House drain and the harbor, so solitary and deserted at other seasons of the year, was busily returning to life. The heat was beginning to drive the whole city to the water's side, where a veritable town of movable houses, like the temporary encampment of an army, was growing up. In a measured line along the sands ran the shacks of the vacationers, cheap structures with walls of painted canvas and roofs of cane, front doors labeled with fantastic names, and, to distinguish one camp from so many others like it, flag-staffs on the gables with banners of all colors, and above the flags, queer weathervanes – boats, dragons, dolls, gew-gaws of every shape and form. In a second line, farther from the shore, and speculating on the appetite that salt air awakens in dyspeptics, came the more pretentious and the more permanent structures of the restaurants and eating-places, with stairways and verandas, façades of ornate but inexpensive stucco, masking the frailty of such pomp under ostentatious names: The Paris Hotel and Restaurant, The Miramar, The Fonda del Buen Gusto; and between these pedants of summer-time gastronomy, the lunch-rooms of the natives, huts with roofs of matting, rickety tables with wine jugs in the center, and outdoor kitchens, dispensing shell-fish with vinegar dressing from Saint John's day till mid-September, under signs of delightfully capricious spelling: Salvaor and Neleta, wines, bears and likers.

Along the roads through this mushroom city, that vanished like a fog with the first gales of autumn, street and steam cars dashed full speed, whistling to scare you before they crushed you flat; or tartanas creaked along, their red curtains flapping like banners of pure joy; or crowds of people pressed their way, with the murmur of many, many voices. It was the humming of a bee-hive, varied with the calling of vendors, the thrumming of guitars, the nasal screaming of accordions, the clack-clack of castañets, the wailing of hand organs, all the kinds of noise that men with smoothed hair and soft white shirts can dance to, after internal baths with anything but water and preparatory to the return to town for a slashing or boxing fray with the first innocent policeman they come across.

The people of the sea, beyond the drain, watched the gathering of this annual invasion with interested eyes, but without taking part in all its jollity. Let them enjoy themselves – if they were willing to pay for it! All that merry-making was the source of the Cabañal's pin-money, for the other seasons of the year.

On the first of August the Rector's boat was, you might say, done. And what a beauty she was, come now, tell the truth and don't be envious! The proud owner spoke of his creation much as a grand-daddy sizes up a new baby in his son's family. "The timber? Well, did you ever see solider beams than hers! And look at the finish on that mast! Not a cross grain to it from deck to point! A bit thick amidships! But I wanted her like that – handles rough water better. But just take a peep at that bow of hers! Sharp enough to cut paper with! Black along the scuppers, but with a shine like the patent leather shoe of a Grandee of Spain; and the body of her, white, but smooth as an eel, and just as fast, by God, in the water!" The rigging, the fishing gear and other trappings, were not yet aboard. But the best tackle makers along shore were at work on them, and by the fifteenth, the whole trousseau would be ready, and, pretty as a bride on the way to church, would she take the water! All this and more, the Rector was saying one evening to the circle of neighbors who, as usual, were sitting around his door.

He had invited his mother and his sister Roseta to supper that night. Dolores was at his side. Some distance away, with his rope-seated chair tilted back against an olive tree, and looking up at the moon through the branches in the dreamy pose of a chromo troubadour, sat Tonet, picking at the strings of a mandolin. On the walk in front some fish were frying on a little earthen stove. A number of children, Pascualet among them, were chasing a dog about in the mud of the gutters. Groups were sitting in front of the other houses along the road, to get full benefit of the faint breeze that was blowing off the sea. Redeu! How people must have been stewing in Valencia that night!

Siñá Tona was getting very old. She had "taken her jump," as she put it. From comely buxomness she had passed abruptly into old age, and the raw bluish light of the moon made evident that the hair on her head had thinned, leaving a scant network of taut gray locks over her sunburned scalp. The wrinkles now sank deep into her emaciated face while her cheeks hung loose and baggy, and her black eyes, once the talk of the whole shore, peered sad and faded from the folds of skin that drooped about them. Old long before her time, and from heartbreak, mostly, the spite and the worry that men had given her! And this she said with a nod in Tonet's direction, but with her thoughts, almost certainly, on the guardsman who had long before betrayed her. Besides, times had been getting harder and harder! What the tavern now brought in was nothing, practically. Roseta had had to go to work in the tobacco factory in town; and every morning, with her lunch-box on her arm, she went off along the highway to Valencia, joining the bands of pretty, bold-faced girls who marched with tapping heels and swishing skirts to sneeze all day in the snuff-laden air of the Old Customs House. And what a girl Roseta had grown to be! Roseta was just the name for her! When her mother, sometimes, looked at her out of the corners of her eyes, she seemed to see in her all the florid exuberance of the handsome siñor Martines.

Even now, while complaining that her daughter would have to take the long walk on winter mornings, she could not help feasting her eyes on that head of tangled golden hair out there under the olive tree, those dreamy sea-green eyes, that white skin that neither sun nor wind could darken, flecked now by the shadows of the branches which the moon outlined in arabesques of light and shade on the girl's face. Roseta, with her air of a maiden who knows all there is to know, kept looking from Dolores to Tonet and from Tonet to Dolores. At the fulsome praises that Pascualo kept showering upon his brother – for drifting away from the waster's life he had been leading to spend more and more of his time in that house where he found a peaceful, homelike kindliness he had never known in his own – the young half-sister smiled sarcastically. Oh, these men, these men! Just as she and mama had always said! Either scamps like Tonet, or puddingheads, like the Rector. Men! She would have none of them! And the Cabañal could never make out why she refused every boy who proposed to her! She would never have one of the wretched animals kicking around between her feet. She had taken well to heart all the curses she had heard her mother heap on men in her bitterest moments of despair down there in the loneliness and gloom of the tavern-boat.

No one had spoken for some time. The fish continued sizzling in the frying-pan. Tonet was still picking disconnected chords from his mandolin. The band of youngsters playing in the street were staring up at the moon as though they had never seen it before, singing in cadenced monotone with silvery little voices:

 
La lluna, la pruna
Vestida de dol …
 

"Eh, will you brats shut up!" Tonet protested, claiming that he had a headache. "You come and make us!" came the answering challenge:

 
Sa mare la crida;
Son pare no vol …
 

And the dog joined in this children's hymn of adoration to Diana's glory, with barks that filled the neighborhood with chills.

The Rector could think of nothing but the boat. Everything had been fixed for the fifteenth, even the matter of the curate, who would go and give her a dash of holy water in the middle of the afternoon. Everything, except one thing, futro! And that had occurred to him that very moment! Of course! She never had been named …! Well, what shall we call her? This unexpected and exciting problem set the whole group a-talking. Even Tonet laid his mandolin down on the ground and seemed to be meditating deeply. He, at any rate, came out with the first suggestion: "Spit-Fire"! Now, what do you say to that!

The Rector's corpulent agreeableness saw nothing wrong with that name. Spit-Fire! What pride it would be for him to command a boat that, faithful to such a christening, would go saucily crashing through the storms with the untamed arrogance of a Portuguese! It was the women who objected. Spit-Fire! Nonsense! Who ever heard of a fish-boat spitting fire! That would make her the joke of all the Cabañal. No, siñá Tona had the right idea – "Fleet-Foot," the name of old Pascualo's boat, the one he had died in, and that, later on, had been the home of all the family. But now it was the men's turn to shout something down. No, that would bring bad luck, as the fate of Fleet-Foot herself had shown. Dolores had a good one. Why not "Rose of the Sea" … a pretty name … as pretty as she was, and in fine taste… But the Rector observed that that name was on a boat already… Too bad, too… It was a beauty! Roseta, who had pouted in disdain at every suggestion thus far, finally came out with her own proposal. She had thought of it at home, the evening before, on looking at a picture that came in a package of tobacco from Gibraltar. She thought the name looked so pretty! It was printed in colors around the trademark on the box – a girl in dancing costume, with roses red as tomatoes on the little white skirt and a bunch of flowers in her hand, as bright and stiff as radishes! Flor de mayo! The boat should be called "Mayflower!"

Recristo! The Rector rubbed his hands in glee. Of course, just the thing, just the thing! Think a moment! "Flor de mayo" – the famous brand of Gibraltar! Well, the boat was built of tobacco, you might say. Most of the money in her had come from smuggling those very rolls that showed the gay dancer in the bright colors! Roseta was right! Flor de mayo! Flor de mayo!

The name pleased everybody, awakening in those sluggish imaginations a thrill of poetry and romance. They found something mysterious and attractive in the name, without suspecting the charm attached to it by that historic boat which carried the Puritans to the new world and marked the birth of the great republic of the West!.. The Rector could not contain his joy. Roseta had the brains for you! Let's have dinner on that, ladies and gentlemen! And we'll have a real toast afterward … to Flor de mayo!

The frying-pan was lifted from the stove and carried into the house, and the whole family rose to follow – significant happenings that did not escape the watchful eyes of little Pascualet. He deserted his orphéon of tiny choristers. The monotone of la lluna la pruna came to an end, and peace settled over the moon-lit country-side.

It was not long before the whole Cabañal, with that gift for rapid perception of important things that little places have, was aware that the Rector's new boat was to be christened Flor de mayo. And when, the evening before the blessing of the vessel, she was dragged down to the water's edge in front of the casa del bòus, the beautiful mysterious name could be read on the inside of her stern sheets, painted in letters of fetching blue.

The next afternoon, the cabin section of the Cabañal was in festive mood. Occasions like that were few indeed! Standing god-father in the baptismal rites was "Señor Mariano el Callao," no less a stingy old fat-purse, granted, but with enough heart in him to shell out a penny or two for a nephew like that on a day like that. Sweets a-plenty were to be passed around on the shore, with barrels of drinks. Barrels! Besides, that Rector boy knew how to do things well. He took the crew he had engaged for the first trip and went off to the church to escort don Santiago, the curate, to the beach. The priest welcomed him with one of those smiles he kept for his very best parishioners only. "What! Ready so soon? Well, son, won't you just run around and tell the sacristan to get the water and the hyssop ready! I'll just get into my cassock, and be with you in a jiffy…" "Not quite so fast, don Santiago!" observed the Rector. "Not quite so fast! You ought to see this is not an occasion for any cassock business, or stuff like that. Your cope, father, your cope, and the best you've got, see? You don't launch a boat like this every other day. Never mind about the money! I'll pay what's right!" The good priest smiled. "Very well … the cope isn't just the thing, but cope it is, if you say so… We're ready to accommodate good members of our flock, who know how to appreciate favors."

And they started back from the rectory, the sacristan in front with the hyssop and the holy vessel; then the curate surrounded by his guard of honor, the captain and his men. In one hand don Santiago was carrying his book of prayers, in the other the train of his old but sumptuous cope, to keep it out of the mud. The handsome robe was of a white somewhat yellowed with age; and the heavy gold borders had tarnished green, while the padding over the lining peeped through in places where the outer cloth had been worn thin.

Children came up in droves to press their sniffling noses on the good priest's hand, which at every step, almost, had to let the train fall into the muck. Women greeted smilingly from the sidewalks. The dear old pae capellá! What a good-natured soul – never too harsh on penances, but able to see through you, just the same, if you tried to fool him. Don Santiago had the secret of adapting himself to the weaknesses of his flock. Many a time he would stop in the street to extend his blessings over the fish baskets of some woman of the market, or touch his fingers miraculously to a pair of short scales to charm it against any danger lest the inspectors of Valencia detect its fraudulent weights!

When the procession reached the shore, the bells began to ring, mingling their garrulous ding-dong in the gentle crunching of the surf. Late comers could be seen running along the sands to arrive in time for everything. There, on a stretch of beach that was quite free of boats, the Mayflower rose from the middle of a swarming crowd, her bright varnished sides gleaming white in the sunlight, her rakish mast, gracefully tilted forward, standing out against the blue, its peak adorned with the baptismal insignia of a new boat, sheaves of grass and bunches of cloth flowers, that would hang up there till the storm winds finally wrenched them loose.

The Rector and his party elbowed their way through the crowd pressing around the boat. At the stern were the two sponsors —siñá Tona, godmother, in a new shawl and skirt; and "Señor" Mariano, god-father, in his tall hat and with his cane, in the very get-up that he wore at his talks with the Governor in town! The whole family offered a spectacle of gay and showy magnificence. Dolores had her pink dress on, and a new kerchief of flaming colors; while her fingers gleamed with every ring she owned. Tonet was strutting about on deck in his new suit, his shining silk cap pulled down over one ear, twirling his mustache in immense satisfaction that his conspicuous position enabled so many pretty girls to sate their eyes on him. On the ground, with Roseta, was his Rosario in the least shabby of her gowns, and sure not to make trouble with Dolores on such a solemn day. The Rector, for his part, had turned Englishman over night. He was sporting a blue woolsey suit that a friend of his, an engineer on a steamer, had brought on from Glasgow. On his vest shone a watch chain as big as one of the stays on his boat – and that was the real surprise he had saved for the celebration. He was sweating like a stoker in that garment that might have done very well in winter. He had taken upon himself the task of keeping order, shoving people back when they edged up too close to the priest and the baptismal party. "The idea, gentlemen… That talking, there! Sh-h-h. This ceremony is not a thing to laugh about. The fun, later on …!" And he set a good example by taking off his cap and putting on a long face, as the chaplain, sweating just as much under that stifling cope, was fumbling through his book to find the prayer beginning Propitiare Domini supplicationibus nostris et benedic navem istam… Siñá Tona and tio Mariano on either side of the curate stood with eyes nailed to the ground. The sacristan watched his master like a cat after a mouse, ready to say amen on the slightest pretext. The multitude with heads bare was hushed and still, as though something extraordinary were about to happen.

Don Santiago knew his public. He read the simple prayer slowly and solemnly, making each syllable stand out, and introducing impressive pauses to take full advantage of the general silence. The Rector, quite beside himself with emotion and not knowing what he was doing, nodded assent to every word, as though taking those Latin phrases that were falling on his Mayflower seriously to heart. What he really caught was all that about Arcam Noe ambulantem in diluvio; and he straightened up to his full height in pride, at the vague feeling that his boat was being likened to that ancient craft, the most famous in Christian annals! So he was a real comrade now of that wicked old patriarch who invented wine and became the first and best sailor of his time, on earth! Siñá Tona could stand the strain no longer. She crammed her handkerchief into both eyes to keep the tears from bursting out. When the prayer was over, the curate reached for the hyssop: Asperges … and he sprinkled a rain of water upon the boat's stern, and the spray dripped down in shining drops over the painted sides. Amen, said the sacristan; and don Santiago, with the Rector in front of him to clear the way, and followed by the sacristan, amening every word, started round the boat, showering Latin and holy water at every step.

Pascualo could not understand that the ceremonies were over. "See here, don Santiago! There's the rigging still to do, and the deck, and then down in the hold! There's a good fellow! It won't take you long … and I'll do what's right, you know!" And the curate, smiling at the earnestness of the young man's plea, went up, finally, to the ladder that had been set up against the Mayflower's bilge, and began the ascent, catching the floundering cope underneath his feet on every rung. And the vestment of white and gold caught the afternoon sun and gleamed afar like the shell of a bright climbing scarab. But when he had blessed everything to the Rector's full content, he withdrew with his assistant, and the throng rushed for the boat like an army storming a wall.

They would give her the right send-off, that crowd of bedraggled loud-talking ragamuffins, the scrapings from the whole beach, already besieging the sponsors with their petulant whining: "Our candy now, and the almonds, the almonds!" "Señor" Mariano's face was beaming omnipotent over the vessel's side. "Candy, eh! It's candy you want!" He well knew what all the good things he had brought to eat had cost – one whole onza – gold – to keep on good terms with nephew! And he bent over, and sunk his hands into the baskets between his legs. "Well, candy it is!" And he began to rain nuts and cinnamon lozenges, as hard as bullets, upon the heads of the clamoring mob, and the young ones, girls and boys, began to scramble on the sand, fighting for the goodies, dirty underskirts squirming about among trousers with huge rents that showed the bare scaly skins of the beach-combers underneath.