That was possible.Fortin could not deny it; but the thing that hurt him most was that he got so little sympathy.Nobody seemed to care whether the light was kept burning or not.When he told them how the machine had been turned all night by hand, they were astonished."CRE-IE!" they cried, "you must have had a great misery to do that." But that he proposed to go on doing it for a month longer, until December tenth, and to begin again on April first, and go on turning the light by hand for three or four weeks more until the supply-boat came down and brought the necessary tools to repair the machine--such an idea as this went beyond their horizon.
"But you are crazy, Baptiste," they said, "you can never do it; you are not capable.""I would be crazy," he answered, "if I did not see what I must do.
That light is my charge.In all the world there is nothing else so great as that for me and for my family--you understand? For us it is the chief thing.It is my Ten Commandments.I shall keep it or be damned."There was a silence after this remark.They were not very particular about the use of language at Dead Men's Point, but this shocked them a little.They thought that Fortin was swearing a shade too hard.In reality he was never more reverent, never more soberly in earnest.
After a while he continued, "I want some one to help me with the work on the island.We must be up all the nights now.By day we must get some sleep.I want another man or a strong boy.Is there any who will come? The Government will pay.Or if not, I will pay, moi-meme."There was no response.All the men hung back.The lighthouse was still unpopular, or at least it was on trial.Fortin's pluck and resolution had undoubtedly impressed them a little.But they still hesitated to commit themselves to his side.
"B'en," he said, "there is no one.Then we shall manage the affair en famille.Bon soir, messieurs!"He walked down to the beach with his head in the air, without looking back.But before he had his canoe in the water he heard some one running down behind him.It was Thibault's youngest son, Marcel, a well-grown boy of sixteen, very much out of breath with running and shyness.
"Monsieur Fortin," he stammered, "will you--do you think--am I big enough?"Baptiste looked him in the face for a moment.Then his eyes twinkled.
"Certain," he answered, "you are bigger than your father.But what will he say to this?""He says," blurted out Marcel--"well, he says that he will say nothing if I do not ask him."So the little Marcel was enlisted in the crew on the island.For thirty nights those six people--a man, and a boy, and four women (Nataline was not going to submit to any distinctions on the score of age, you may be sure)--for a full month they turned their flashing lantern by hand from dusk to day-break.
The fog, the frost, the hail, the snow beleaguered their tower.
Hunger and cold, sleeplessness and weariness, pain and discouragement, held rendezvous in that dismal, cramped little room.
Many a night Nataline's fife of fun played a feeble, wheezy note.
But it played.And the crank went round.And every bit of glass in the lantern was as clear as polished crystal.And the big lamp was full of oil.And the great eye of the friendly giant winked without ceasing, through fierce storm and placid moonlight.
When the tenth of December came, the light went to sleep for the winter, and the keepers took their way across the ice to the mainland.They had won the battle, not only on the island, fighting against the elements, but also at Dead Men's Point, against public opinion.The inhabitants began to understand that the lighthouse meant something--a law, an order, a principle.
Men cannot help feeling respect for a thing when they see others willing to fight or to suffer for it.
When the time arrived to kindle the light again in the spring, Fortin could have had any one that he wanted to help him.But no;he chose the little Marcel again; the boy wanted to go, and he had earned the right.Besides, he and Nataline had struck up a close friendship on the island, cemented during the winter by various hunting excursions after hares and ptarmigan.Marcel was a skilful setter of snares.But Nataline was not content until she had won consent to borrow her father's CARABINE.They hunted in partnership.One day they had shot a fox.That is, Nataline had shot it, though Marcel had seen it first and tracked it.Now they wanted to try for a seal on the point of the island when the ice went out.It was quite essential that Marcel should go.
"Besides," said Baptiste to his wife, confidentially, "a boy costs less than a man.Why should we waste money? Marcel is best."A peasant-hero is seldom averse to economy in small things, like money.
But there was not much play in the spring session with the light on the island.It was a bitter job.December had been lamb-like compared with April.First, the southeast wind kept the ice driving in along the shore.Then the northwest wind came hurtling down from the Arctic wilderness like a pack of wolves.There was a snow-storm of four days and nights that made the whole world--earth and sky and sea--look like a crazy white chaos.And through it all, that weary, dogged crank must be kept turning--turning from dark to daylight.
It seemed as if the supply-boat would never come.At last they saw it, one fair afternoon, April the twenty-ninth, creeping slowly down the coast.They were just getting ready for another night's work.
Fortin ran out of the tower, took off his hat, and began to say his prayers.The wife and the two elder girls stood in the kitchen door, crossing themselves, with tears in their eyes.Marcel and Nataline were coming up from the point of the island, where they had been watching for their seal.She was singing "Mon pere n'avait fille que moi, Encore sur la mer il m'envoi-e-eh!"When she saw the boat she stopped short for a minute.
