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Updated: June 14, 2025
The hold was rapidly becoming converted into a watery and leaden coffin fast going to the bottom. The aft gun hurled its first shot. To Ferragut its report seemed mere irony. No one knew as he did the ship's desperate condition. "To the life boats!" he shouted. "Every one to the boats!"
After seeing Doña Cristina well established in Barcelona, surrounded with a cortège of nephews fawning upon the rich aunt from Valencia, her son embarked as apprentice on a transatlantic boat which was making regular trips to Cuba and the United States. Thus began the seafaring life of Ulysses Ferragut, which terminated only with his death.
The cook, looking at him affectionately with his bleared eyes, believed that he must have bounded back a dozen years and be still in Valencia, talking with that other Ferragut boy who was running away from the university in order to row in the harbor. He almost came to believe that he had lived twice. He always listened patiently to the lad's complaints, interrupting him with solemn counsels.
The poor old captain with sick heart and legs of stone had always turned to the sea of light for distraction. It was music that made appear in the foggy heavens the peaks of Sorrento covered with orange and lemon trees, and the coast of Sicily, perfumed by its flaming flora. Ferragut manned his boat with friendly people. His first mate was a pilot who had begun his career in a fishing smack.
There were, besides, various sheets from the banking establishments at Barcelona, rendering Ferragut an account of the investment of his capital. At the foot of the staircase he completed his examination of the outside of his correspondence. It was just what was always awaiting him on his return from his voyages.
He was skipper of a small craft; Ferragut had not been mistaken. He was speaking slowly, as though taken up with his final revelation to which all that he was saying was merely an introduction. "The times are not so bad.... Money is to be gained in the sea; more than ever. I am from Valencia.... We have brought three boats from there with wine and rice.
Ulysses' uneasiness vanished as soon as the loading of the vessel was finished. This trip was going to be shorter than the others. The Mare Nostrum went to Corfu with war material for the Serbs who were reorganizing their battalions destined for Salonica. On the return trip Ferragut was attacked by the enemy.
Precise orders had been given out against him. "As to his accomplices!..." Freya was figuring undoubtedly among these accomplices for having dared to defend Ferragut, for remembering the tragic event of his son, for having refused to join the chorus desiring his extermination. Weeks afterwards the doctor again became as smiling and as amiable as in other times.
It is useless to think of anything else.... Do not follow me.... We shall see each other.... I shall hunt you up.... Good-by!... Good-by!" And although Ferragut felt tempted to follow her, he remained motionless, seeing her hurry rapidly away, as though fleeing from the words that she had just let fall before the little temple of the poet.
While he was thinking it all over, a phrase which he had somewhere heard formed perhaps from the residuum of old readings began to chant in his brain: "A life without ideals is not worth the trouble of living." Ferragut mutely assented. It was true: in order to live, an ideal is necessary. But where could he find it?...
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