"AND STILL THEY SAY FISH COMES HIGH!"
Four hours later the Mayflower was off Sagunto in the channel which tio Batiste, with his habit of judging more from the bottom than from landmarks on shore, was tracing between the Roca del Puig and the kelp grounds of Murviedro. Not a boat had dared go so far from home that day. The rest of the fleet could be dimly seen, strung out on the horizon in a wide arc from in front of Valencia to the offings of Cullera. The sky was a leaden gray; the sea a deep purple, turning to an ebony black in the troughs of the waves. The wind came in a succession of long frigid squalls that whipped the sails about and whistled through the rigging. The Mayflower and its running mate kept on, however, under full sail, dragging the bòu-net that was getting heavier and heavier from minute to minute.
The Rector was posted astern, at the tiller, heading the Mayflower into the menacing gusts, more from instinct than anything else; for his eyes were not on the water. They were fixed on Tonet, who had been trying to avoid their piercing gaze ever since the boat left shore. At times they would shift to little Pascualet, who was standing rigid at the foot of the mast, throwing his diminutive chest out in challenge to that sea, which, on his second voyage, was beginning to show its temper. The Mayflower was now pitching heavily as the waves came stronger and stronger; but the sailors sauntered casually back and forth about their work, as if nothing unusual were going on, though a false step would have thrown them overboard.
The Rector looked from Tonet to the boy and from the boy to Tonet. An expression of doubt gradually changing to conviction was written on his face, as he compared them feature by feature, minutely. No, Rosario had not deceived him. Where had his eyes been all those years not to have noticed the astonishing resemblance? And Pascualo's face grew paler and paler under its deep sunburn; his eyes were blood-shot as they had been the night before, and he pressed his lips tightly together to hold in the angry words that were tingling on his tongue and gathering in his throat. God, how people must have been laughing at him! Look at the boy! The very same face, the very same ways! Who could mistake them? Pascualet was little Tonet all over again, the frail nervous child he had tended like a nurse-maid in the tavern-boat. No, that was Tonet's boy, no use denying it, the living, visible proof of his dishonor! And as this conclusion settled deeper in the skipper's mind, he tore at the flesh through his open shirt front, and frowned with sullen animosity at the water, the boat, and the sailors, who kept looking at him out of the corners of their eyes, wondering why the captain was in such a black temper, though it was owing probably to the weather.
And why should he go on slaving like a dog? To earn money for that wench of a woman who had been making a public fool of him all this time? And create a future for Pascualet, leave him the richest fisherman in the Cabañal? No, no, no! There was nothing left for him to live for. Die, then, and take with him to destruction all he had been working for! and the Mayflower, his other child, that he talked to as he would have to a daughter—yes, her, too, away with her, and perish with her the very memory of the sweet hopes and dreams that had gone into the building of her. He wished to God that one of those big waves, instead of filling under the boat's bow and throwing her rudely about on its foaming crest, would open underneath her keel and let her drop to the bottom.
A signal came from the Mayflower's teammate. The net was dragging so heavy now from the huge catch inside that the boats were making scarcely any headway. Wasn't it about time to haul her in? Pascualo smiled bitterly! What the devil did he care! Certainly, haul her in when you please! The crew began pulling at the cable that stretched from the lower edge of the net to either boat, and they pulled and pulled joyously. In spite of the wet weather and the back-breaking exertion, Tonet and the sailors were in great glee. This was something like a haul! A hundredweight at every foot!
But tio Batiste, from his place on the tip of the bow, where every dash of spray was reaching him, gave a sudden call:
"Look, Pascualo, Pascualo! Look! There she comes! There she comes!"
The old fisherman was pointing to the horizon, where the leaden mantle of cloud seemed to be condensing into a blackish vapor. The Rector had been watching the men hauling at the net. The little boy and Tonet happened to be standing side by side, and the resemblance between them was more striking than ever.
"Pascualo, man alive! Pascualo!"