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Updated: June 19, 2025
The family of a Spanish fisherman, Feliu Viosca, once occupied and gave its name to such an islet, quite close to the Gulf-shore, the loftiest bit of land along fourteen miles of just such marshy coast as I have spoken of.
Before the cheniere all the shell-beach slope was piled with wreck uptorn trees with the foliage still fresh upon them, splintered timbers of mysterious origin, and logs in multitude, scarred with gashes of the axe. Feliu and his comrades had saved wood enough to build a little town, working up to their waists in the surf, with ropes, poles, and boat-hooks. The whole sea was full of flotsam.
It was broken at last by the guttural voice of the old captain emerging from the cottage, leading the child by the hand, and followed by Carmen and Feliu. All who had been resting rose up and looked at the child. Standing in a lighted space, with one tiny hand enveloped by the captain's great brown fist, she looked so lovely that a general exclamation of surprise went up.
It was sultry and bright; even the sea-breeze was warm; there were pleasant odors in the shade, and a soporific murmur made of leaf-speech and the hum of gnats. Only the captain entered the house with Feliu; the rest remained without some taking seats on a rude plank bench under the oaks others flinging themselves down upon the weeds a few stood still, leaning upon their rifles.
So Conchita for a new name had been given to her with that terrible sea christening received her first lessons in Spanish; and she proved a most intelligent pupil. Before long she could prattle to Feliu; she would watch for his return of evenings, and announce his coming with "Aqui viene mi papacito?" she learned, too, from Carmen, many little caresses of speech to greet him with.
Nothing could be learned until the luggers should return; and none of them was yet in sight. Still Feliu was not anxious as to the fate of his boats, manned by the best sailors of the coast.
Mateo, who had come to the country while a boy, spoke English better than the rest of the cheniere people; he acted as interpreter whenever Feliu found any difficulty in comprehending or answering questions; and he told them of the child rescued that wild morning, and of Feliu's swim. His recital evoked a murmur of interest and excitement, followed by a confusion of questions.
"Madre de Dios! mi sueno!" screamed Carmen, abandoning her preparations for the morning meal, as Feliu, nude, like a marine god, rushed in and held out to her a dripping and gasping baby-girl, "Mother of God! my dream!" But there was no time then to tell of dreams; the child might die.
She wore the same dress in which Feliu had found her a soft white fabric of muslin, with trimmings of ribbon that had once been blue; and the now discolored silken scarf, which had twice done her such brave service, was thrown over her shoulders.
But already, without a word, brown Feliu has stripped for the struggle; another second, and he is shooting through the surf, head and hands tunnelling the foam hills.... One two three lines passed! four! that is where they first begin to crumble white from the summit, five! that he can ride fearlessly! ... Then swiftly, easily, he advances, with a long, powerful breast-stroke, keeping his bearded head well up to watch for drift, seeming to slide with a swing from swell to swell, ascending, sinking, alternately presenting breast or shoulder to the wave; always diminishing more and more to the eyes of Mateo and Miguel, till he becomes a moving speck, occasionally hard to follow through the confusion of heaping waters ... You are not afraid of the sharks, Feliu! no: they are afraid of you; right and left they slunk away from your coming that morning you swam for life in West-Indian waters, with your knife in your teeth, while the balls of the Cuban coast-guard were purring all around you.
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