Collected Short Works by Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson

Author:Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson [Dunbar-Nelson, Alice Moore]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amazon Classics
Published: 2021-03-01T18:30:00+00:00

3

THE FISHERMAN OF PASS CHRISTIAN

The swift breezes on the beach at Pass Christian meet and conflict as though each strove for the mastery of the air. The land breeze blows down through the pines, resinous, fragrant, cold, bringing breath-like memories of dim, dark woods shaded by myriad pine needles. The breeze from the Gulf is warm and soft and languorous, blowing up from the south with its suggestion of tropical warmth and passion. It is strong and masterful, and tossed Annette’s hair and whipped her skirts about her in bold disregard for the proprieties.

Arm in arm with Philip, she was strolling slowly down the great pier which extends from the Mexican Gulf Hotel into the waters of the Sound. There was no moon to-night, but the sky glittered and scintillated with myriad stars, brighter than you can ever see farther North, and the great waves that the Gulf breeze tossed up in restless profusion gleamed with the white fire of phosphorescent flame. The wet sands on the beach glowed white fire; the posts of the pier where the waves had leapt and left a laughing kiss, the sides of the little boats and fish cars tugging at their ropes, alike showed white and flaming, as though the sea and all it touched were afire.

Annette and Philip paused midway the pier to watch two fishermen casting their nets. With heads bared to the breeze, they stood in clear silhouette against the white background of sea.

“See how he uses his teeth,” almost whispered Annette.

Drawing himself up to his full height, with one end of the huge seine between his teeth, and the cord in his left hand, the taller fisherman of the two paused a half instant, his right arm extended, grasping the folds of the net. There was a swishing rush through the air, and it settled with a sort of sob as it cut the waters and struck a million sparkles of fire from the waves. Then, with backs bending under the strain, the two men swung on the cord, drawing in the net, laden with glittering restless fish, which were unceremoniously dumped on the boards to be put into the fish car awaiting them.

Philip laughingly picked up a soft, gleaming jellyfish, and threatened to put it on Annette’s neck. She screamed, ran, slipped on the wet boards, and in another instant would have fallen over into the water below. The tall fisherman caught her in his arms and set her on her feet.

“Mademoiselle must be very careful,” he said in the softest and most correct French. “The tide is in and the water very rough. It would be very difficult to swim out there tonight.”

Annette murmured confused thanks, which were supplemented by Philip’s hearty tones. She was silent until they reached the pavilion at the end of the pier. The semidarkness was unrelieved by lantern or light. The strong wind wafted the strains from a couple of mandolins, a guitar, and a tenor voice stationed in one corner to sundry engrossed couples in sundry other corners.

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