CHAPTER LXXXIV

The night which follows is clear and exquisite. We are moving very slowly, in the Coral sea, before a light, warm breeze, advancing with precaution, in fear of encountering white islands, listening to the silence, in fear of hearing the murmur of reefs.

From midnight to four o'clock in the morning, the time of the watch has passed in vigil, amid the great, strange peace of the southern waters.

Everything is of a blue-green, of a blue of night, of a colour of infinite depth; the moon, which at first sails high in the heaven, throws little flickering reflections on the sea, as if everywhere, on the immense empty plain, mysterious hands were agitating silently thousands of little mirrors.

The half-hours pass one after another, undisturbed, the breeze steady, the sails very lightly stretched. The sailors of the watch, in their linen clothes, are asleep on the bare deck, in rows, all on the same side, fitted in one with another, like rows of white mummies.

At each half-hour a bell rings, startlingly; and two voices come from the bow of the ship, singing out one after the other, in a kind of slow rhythm: "Keep a look out on the port bow!" says one. "Keep a look out on the starboard bow!" replies the other. The noise is surprising, producing the impression of a formidable clamour in all this silence; and then the vibrations of the voices and of the bell die away and there is no longer a sound.

Meanwhile the moon is slowly sinking and its blue light grows wan; it is much nearer the water now and its reflection in it makes a long trail of light.

It becomes yellower, scarcely giving any light, like a dying lamp.

Slowly, it begins to get larger, disproportionately larger; then it becomes red, loses its shape, and is swallowed up, strange, terrifying. And then what one sees has no longer a name: on the horizon is a great dull fire, blood-red. It is too large to be the moon, and, besides, distant things now mass in front of it in large dark shadows; colossal towers, toppling mountains, palaces, Babels!

One feels as it were a veil of darkness weighing upon the senses. There comes to you an impression of apocalyptic cities, of clouds heavy with blood, of suspended maledictions; a conception of gigantic horrors, of chaotic destructions, of the end of the world. . . .

For a moment the mind has slept, involuntarily; and a waking dream has come and gone, very quickly.

Mirage! And now it is over and the moon has set. There was nothing beyond save the infinite sea and floating mists announcing the approach of dawn; now that the moon is no longer behind them, they are not even discernible. All has vanished and the darkness has returned, the real darkness of night, clear and calm as ever.

They are far away from us, those countries of the Apocalypse: for we are in the Coral Sea, on the other side of the world, and there is nothing here but the immense circle, the limitless mirror of the waters. . . .

A signalman has gone to see the time by the chronometer. Out of deference to the moon, he is going to note in the large register, always open, which is the ship's log, the precise moment at which it set.

Then he comes to me and says:

"Captain, it is time to call the watch." My four hours of the night watch are already finished, then, and the officer to relieve me will shortly make his appearance.

I give the order:

"Master-gunners and loaders, call the watch!"[5]

Then, some of those who were sleeping on the deck, like white mummies, get up and awaken some of the others; they move off in a group and go below. And then, from the spar-deck, comes the sound of twenty voices, singing one after the other--in the manner of glee-singing--a very ancient air, at once joyous and mocking.

They sing:

"Have you heard, you larboard men, get up for the watch, get up, get up, get up! . . . Have you heard, you larboard men, get up for the watch, get up, get up, get up! . . ."

They move hither and thither, stooping under the suspended hammocks, and, as they pass, shake the sleepers with thrusts of their powerful shoulders.

And presently, inexorable, I give the order:

"Fall in on deck, the larboard watch!"

And they come up half-naked; there are some who yawn, others who stretch themselves, who stumble. They line up in groups, while a man, with a lantern, peers into their faces and counts them. The others who were sleeping on deck go below and sleep in their place.

Yves has come up with the men of the larboard watch who have just been awakened. I recognize at once his way of whistling which I had not heard now for a year. And presently I recognize his voice which rings out in command for the first time on the deck of the _Primauguet._

Then I call him very officially by the title which has just been restored to him: "Master of the Watch."

It was only to shake him by the hand, to wish him good luck and good night before I went to bed.

[Footnote 5: The regulation order. On board the crew is divided into a number of groups, each forming a gun's crew. The master-gunner and the loaders escort the men of their group and awaken those who replace them for the watch.]